Darkside
by magistrate
Summary: Every one of us has nightmares. Being mercenaries, SeeDs will of course have nightmares of a different and more potent sort....
1. REM Beginnings

**_Layer ???:  
REM Beginnings_**  
  
Every one of us has nightmares, the counselor was saying, tapping a metal pointer against his thigh. Being mercenaries, you will of course have nightmares of a different and more potent sort than the average person. Now, there is a considerable amount of speculation as to what nightmares are, how they originate, what they mean... all of this is inconsequential. Over the next few days, my job is to teach you methods of coping and controlling your nightmares so that they need not run the risk of encroaching upon your personal or professional lives."  
  
It was ironic, he thought, that this was all going on at night. He had to suppress a yawn the moment he thought of it--it was too late for a lecture class, too late to gather a bunch of students and expect them to gain and retain any information. And yet....  
  
"A nightmare," continued the counselor unmercifully, "can produce an extremely strong effect upon the body. Unlike imagination--what some would term its closest relative--a nightmare can raise levels of adrenaline, increase heart rate and blood pressure, induce sweating--indeed, these are all fairly common occurrences. In fact, nightmares have been known to be such powerful physical cues that--"  
  
He stopped listening as his eyes floated up to the clock on the wall of the lecture room. It read barely three minutes after the last time he had checked--the steady blink of the colon between the hour and minute digits was a predictable monotony that he found fascinating for about ten seconds. After that, the red mark on the second knuckle of his right hand occupied his attention for another half-minute. Finally, though, he had to return his eyes to the speaker.  
  
"...a resurfacing of past trauma, a subconscious reminder of something important, some even believe in premonitions and visions. A full study of the different types of nightmares will allow you to adequately anticipate and prepare for whatever dreams or nightmares you may have...."  
  
His yawn decided to let him know in no uncertain terms that it wasn't going to be suppressed any longer. He clamped his mouth shut, suddenly ashamed, but the counselor's eyes hardly skipped over him.  
  
Reveling in his luck and deciding to push it to its limit, he leaned over and nudged the person sitting next to him--who looked to be watching the speaker with a sort of tired, attentive focus. "Zell," he whispered urgently, flashing a grin. "You actually listening to this guy?"  
  
Zell blinked, and looked over. "Huh?" he asked, then seemed to rouse from a sort of half-slumber. "I--huh. No, not really." He gave a sheepish half-grin, casting a wary glance at the counselor. "It's really boring."  
  
"Yeah, no kidding." He stifled a laugh. "Geez, it sounds as if this guy really knows what he's talking about, too. What a loser. I don't believe Cid really paid for this guy to be brought in! They're _dreams_, man, we can deal with our big, bad dreams. It's stupid."  
  
"Yeah." Zell shrugged, and turned away to watch the speaker again. Resting his chin on the back of his hand, he tried to become as comfortable as possible in the lecture-hall desks without looking like he was falling asleep.  
  
"I bet you don't even dream, do you? Not nightmares. Not a guy like you, so many missions, so many kills. I bet nothing frightens you any more."  
  
Zell looked at him. It was the strangest look--a tremulous middle ground between confusion and incredulity, with a very light edge of abject terror. The look persisted for less than a second, before Zell answered. "...no. Not really."  
  
"In SeeD, you use GFs. GFs affect several areas of the active mind--memory, precognition, a very few of the fine motor skills, the verbal...."  
  
The counselor's voice had now progressed beyond a monotone and evolved into a full-fledged drone. It was intensely hypnotic, and he couldn't seem to either stop listening or make any sense of the words. He yawned again, and felt the man's eyes fix on him.  
  
"...the bizarre confluence of paramagical energies and the subconscious. Recognizing _that_, we must then immediately ask if the same techniques developed in recent months used to treat memory loss of GF origin can be applied in similar or modified ways to the new dilemma of...."  
  
The steady blink of the second colon separated two halves of a palindrome. **12:21**. Who the hell had class after midnight? What the hell was wrong with this place?  
  
"You know, I never junctioned a GF before," he remarked absently. Zell was nodding with the air of one who wasn't really listening but wanted to pretend that he was. "But it's really funny. They gave me two."  
  
There was something remarkable about the way the pointer in the man's hand kept a perfect beat-a-second rhythm against the speaker's thigh. "...by focusing entirely and exclusively on...."  
  
He blinked.  
  
The world was getting fuzzy around the edges. He looked around for the clock, wondering if he should be getting to bed soon. Of course he should. It was after midnight, and he was tired as all get-out. Besides, he had curfew to worry about. The faculty would be on his case more than ever this time, not to mention that damned Committee....  
  
_(Waitaminnit.)_  
  
He yawned again, but it didn't help him wake up. Zell's eyelids were drooping, although he was making a valiant effort to stay awake. But of course he was dropping off--the speaker was as dry as old bones and much less interesting. "...to minimize the direct effects. However, care should be exercised to avoid total suppression of the unconscious functions, as previous research in related psychopathological areas has indicated that such a suppression may have adverse affects...."  
  
Quistis noticed something, and nudged him sharply with an elbow. "Stay awake, Zell," she chided softly.  
  
"I don't get it," he said aloud. The speaker's eyes continued to drill into him.  
  
"...various phobias and manias, heightened anxiety, loss of concentration...."  
  
He inspected the red mark on his knuckle again. It seemed largely unchanged, so he glanced up at the clock. Nine minutes to the half-hour. Weren't these things usually done at the half-hour?  
  
He was beginning to develop a pounding pain in his head.  
  
Squall was beginning to drop off. He reached over and gave him a light shake, which was met with a halfhearted glare. "So, no nightmares at all, then?" he asked in a feeble attempt to make conversation.  
  
Squall gave him that _look_ again. "I don't want to talk about it," he said.  
  
The counselor tapped him on the shoulder, and he jumped. He must not have been paying attention when the man had come up--ooh, he was in trouble now....  
  
"...but only in extreme cases. In most cases the effects are Hyne Doc what did you do to him? Five CC's, not twenty."  
  
"Sorry, sir," Quistis said, sounding pained.  
  
One of the florescent lights in the ceiling began to malfunction, brightening the room. He tried to move a hand to his eyes, but they were too heavy with the weight of the metal studs on the back of his gloves.  
  
"You're going to ruin everything," the counselor droned. He wondered if he should be taking notes.  
  
His head hurt like hell.  
  
"Every one of us has nightmares," the counselor explained carefully. What _time_ was it? Past curfew, probably. Ma was going to be mad, not to mention the Disciplinary Committee....  
  
"I don't know about this one," Quistis said, putting a hand on his arm. "I think this may have gone too far--"  
  
"No."  
  
"I feel sick," he announced, stood up, and fell forward. The chair landed on top of him, a comforting pressure on his back. His wrists were trapped under the desk edge, though, and he could barely flex his fingers. He had a vague notion that something might be broken.  
  
"Shit, shit, shit." Quistis was cursing, trying to rub feeling back into his hands. The counselor prodded him once or twice with his toe, increasing an already staggering headache.  
  
"Turn the lights off," he complained, but it came out sounding like "So. No nightmares at all?"  
  
The counselor was tapping his pointer against his thigh, and each hit let out a computerized _blip_. "Come on, Doc, pull him through."  
  
"No; I feel really, _really_ sick," he protested, and squeezed his eyes shut. A pure, white light got in regardless.  
  
The counselor crouched, tapping the pointer against Zell's forearm. "Yeah," he was saying--yeah, or something like that. "Yeah. No nightmares at all."  
  
He opened his eyes.


	2. Good Morning, Esthar Bay

**_Layer 001:  
Good Morning, Esthar Bay_**  
  
**_[blip] ... [blip] ... [blip] ...._**  
  
Zell drifted up into consciousness slowly, staring up at the ceiling of the warehouse. He had managed to roll over onto one of the tarp-covered piles of fenced goods, and something was digging into the back of his skull in a most unpleasant manner. He quickly rolled back off, searching for the source of the constant noise.  
  
After a few moments of searching, he came across a small, handheld audio codec. With a slight start, he wondered how long it had been going off. It could have been signaling all night and he would never have known--  
  
He hit the **SPEAK** button. "Er. Hello?"  
  
There was a moment's silence, a rustle, and then the sound of a very annoyed voice on the other end. _"Good **god**, Zell, do you have any idea what time it is?"_  
  
Zell looked up. Judging by the light pouring in through the warehouse's slotted windows... he had no idea. "No. I, uh, overslept. Sorry."  
  
_"It's ten fifteen. I've been trying to reach you for the last half-hour! I was this close to sending Siobhan back to see if you were still alive."_  
  
"Sorry." Zell looked around, trying to wrestle up memories from a part of his brain that seemed more inclined to go on sleeping. "What's happening? Do you need me?"  
  
_"Well, I sure as hell didn't page you for the joy of conversation,"_ the voice replied. _"Yes, we need you. You're our mechanic, remember? You need to bring the IDA over here, as of twenty minutes ago. And hurry it up, will you?"_  
  
"The... IDA?"  
  
_"Wake up!"_ The voice was definitely irate now, and Zell was having trouble placing it. _"Interfaced Data Assembly. It's the thing you almost got killed last night trying to get, remember? ...look. We're at the South Side Docks already, and in thirty minutes the _Harpoon_ is going to be gone. So step on it!"_  
  
The codec shut off, and Zell rubbed the back of his head. His fingers came into unexpected contact with a bandage, and he jerked them away and winced. No wonder he had had trouble waking up--he probably shouldn't have gone to sleep at all, if he had a head wound there. Shaking off his confusion, he looked around for the IDA.  
  
The object in question was a small computer drive with a number of cable ports--a few actually containing cables--and a disc slot with a tiny, recessed activation button. Zell located his pack--it was right next to his bed, easily accessible, just like they taught in Basic Procedure--and stuffed the IDA into it. Slinging it onto his back, he tightened the shoulder straps to be comfortable and headed out the door.  
  
The light was overpowering for the first few moments, and he simply stood in the alley and waited while his eyes adjusted. The glare was everywhere, reflecting off the street and the whitewashed building walls. Off in the distance rose the translucent walls of Esthar buildings, casting long, colorful shadows in the morning light. _(Industrial District,)_ Zell identified belatedly. _(...oh! Yeah! We're supposed to break into the _Harpoon_ and sabotage the engine. It's a SeeD mission. Right!)_  
  
Armed with his newfound recollection, Zell glanced around for the access road that would take him down to the maintenance houses by the Docks. Realizing he had come out the wrong door, he started around the building and tried to remember any other useful details that might have slipped his mind.  
  
_(...I'm here with Siobhan Sierra and Tanker Riles,)_ he thought. _(Tanker is in charge, right? ...yeah, he outranks me.)_ His thoughts soured. _(And hates me, I think.)_  
  
The access road was a pitiful affair, more a path of grit and grime between two warehousing systems than anything else. It was a straight shot down to the Docks, with no intersections or corners. Zell set out at a jog, noting again how this stretch of town seemed to be perpetually cloaked in shadow. _(After we hit the _Harpoon_, we're supposed to get out of there. We'll meet up with the _Kobayashi Maru_, and it'll take us to a safe port farther north. We meet up with a SeeD transport there, and mission accomplished! Should be easy.)_  
  
A light touch to the bandage on his head reminded him of the rest.  
  
_(We have to watch out for the Desperados. They're... they're...)_ The answer was eluding him, and he didn't much like it. _(....they're the ones who almost got me killed last night,)_ he told himself, and hoped that that would be enough for the moment. _(Oh, well. Tanker will remind me.)_  
  
He was wondering what time it was, and it took him a few seconds to remember that he had been given a watch for this mission. Checking it, he read **10:21**--twenty-four minutes until the _Harpoon_ Left dock. In just shy of a half-hour he had to get there, get in, do his job, and get out.  
  
He ran faster.  
  
-  
  
Neither of his teammates looked particularly pleased with him as he ran up, and Zell could hardly blame them. Tanker in particular was giving him a very nasty glare, and without any formalities the mission commander tossed him a maintenance worker's jumpsuit. "Get into that," he snapped. "Just put it on over your clothes, like Siob and I did. Desperado guards are crawling over the _Harpoon_ like ants on honey, and we're sure as hell not going to get in any other way."  
  
Tanker stared for a moment, then reached out and pulled the bandage from Zell's head. "Hey!"  
Zell exclaimed as it tugged against the recent bruises.  
  
"C'mere," Tanker snapped. "I'm going to wrap up the side of your face. There's no way in hell we're going to get in there without a dozen people seeing us at bare minimum, and we don't need anyone identifying that tattoo of yours." He snorted derisively. "Not that this will be much less conspicuous, but at least we can try to throw them a bit."  
  
Siobhan rolled her eyes as Tanker re-bound Zell's head, cinching the bandage a bit tighter than was necessary out of sheer spite. "The _Harpoon_ uses an integrated computer system in its engines," she said. "The computer pretty much runs everything. I'll take the IDA--I know how to use it. Zell, your job is to make sure the engine still starts when we're done. We want it to take them until they reach the ocean and try to activate the impulse drivers to figure out that something's wrong."  
  
Tanker gave a cruel grin. "And by then," he said, "they'll be surrounded by Esthar gunboats with no way to get out on conventional power. I _wish_ I could watch."  
  
Siobhan watched critically as Zell wormed his way into the jumpsuit, then glanced down at the _Harpoon_. "What a wreck," she said. "I can't believe that thing even moves, much less supports an impulse drive. It has more seams than a tailor's workroom."  
  
"They're called upgrades," Tanker said. "Trust me, babes, that's the toughest ship in the docks. And _we're_ gonna be the ones taking it down."  
  
Siobhan rolled her eyes again. "Get off it," she said. "And stop grinning like a maniac. You're a maintenance official, just out of some lowest-level college, and the only work you can find is taking odd jobs for outlaws at prices below your worth. Keep that in mind."  
  
Tanker shrugged. "Let's go," he said, barely giving Zell time to zip up the back of the jumpsuit and stand. "We have thirteen minutes at the absolute max. And _I'm_ the leader--let _me_ do the talking."  
  
"_That'll_ be a disaster," Siobhan muttered. Casting a glance at Zell, she held out her hand. "Gimme your pack," she ordered flatly. Zell nodded and handed it over. Sierra was not, as a rule, someone you wanted to take issue with.  
  
"The IDA's on top," Zell said unhelpfully.  
  
"I'll find it."  
  
Tanker was motioning them to follow him, and Siobhan slipped the pack on over one shoulder and did so. Zell trailed after them, trying his best to look like a maintenance officer and feeling like an idiot with half of his face covered in bandages.  
  
_(The Desperados were soldiers,)_ he realized, coming into sight of the _Harpoon_'s main hatch. _(Deserters. So that's what Esthar wants with them.)_  
  
Tanker walked up to the first one, putting on a look of resentful boredom. "We're the maintenance officers you called," he said. "We're here to look at the engine room."  
  
"About time," one of the guards said. "We won't hold back our schedule for you. Get in."  
  
"What's with his face?" the other guard asked, motioning to Zell's bandage suspiciously.  
  
Tanker glanced back. "That's why we were late," he said. "Someone decided that it would be funny to rig a generator to explode. He went in to look at it, a few sparks flew where they shouldn't have and that happened. We got him wrapped up as fast as we could."  
  
The soldier cast his companion a look, and motioned them in. "Don't be long," he said. "The engine room is down the center hall, down the hatch, and the entry in on the right. It's hard to miss."  
  
Tanker nodder, stepping past the man as if he had walked into Estharan sea vessels every midmorning of his life. Zell and Siobhan followed, Siobhan checking her watch and Zell acting as normal as he could.  
  
The ship was swarming with Desperados, all bustling about in preparation to depart. Most of them paid no attention to the SeeDs, occupied as they were by some other task of importance. The lower level and the engine room were pretty much deserted--a soldier was in the engine room checking a few of the readouts, but he vacated the premises by way of acknowledging their presence. Tanker strode into the center of the room, taking everything in. "Go to it," he said.  
  
Zell stared at the massive contraption, with absolutely no idea what was expected of him. "Uh, what?"  
  
Siobhan gave him an odd look, shaking her head. "We need to talk to you about that head of yours," she said. "Disconnect the engine ignition from the impulse drive and reconnect it to the main system. But I suppose you don't know how to do that, do you?"  
  
Zell had the feeling that he was really, _really_ blowing it on this mission. "I'll figure it out," he said, cracking his knuckles and sliding under what looked to be the main apparatus. Once he was actually looking at the pistons and gears, he could usually figure out what went where.  
  
...usually.  
  
"Well, you're the mechanic," Tanker snickered. "Mechanize."  
  
Zell stared at the mess of parts under the engine's routing system. It was obvious that the thing had been taken apart or added on to several times--and also obvious that whoever had done the additions and modifications had only a basic sense of mechanics. This shouldn't be too difficult, assuming that whatever amateur had put it together hadn't screwed everything up royally.  
  
"Hey, I have a tool belt somewhere?" he asked. Tanker grabbed his pack, rifling through it and sending the belt skimming under the machine to Zell.  
  
"Keep that handy," he said. "You forget about anything else?"  
  
"Nope!" Grabbing a flashlight, Zell took a closer look at the apparatus, following everything along to guess what it did. The engine was off at the moment, which was a good thing--under no circumstances would Zell want to be working on something like this while it was up and running.  
  
"I'm giving you both seven minutes to figure all of this out," Tanker said. "We want to be on the safe side. We could go a bit over that, but go too long and we'll be hopping off and swimming back to shore."  
  
Within a minute of close inspection, Zell was fairly certain that he had identified the main engine and the prototype impulse drive, and was checking the ignition systems on each. The Estharan ship engine wasn't totally different than the engine of a SeeD transport--which was lucky, considering the way most Estharan systems worked.  
  
Holding the flashlight in his mouth, Zell grabbed one of the multiuse tools from the belt and set to work rearranging the components to his satisfaction.  
  
"Hey," Siobhan said, interrupting his concentration. "Tanker. I need this panel open. Come help me."  
  
There was the sound of footsteps, and Tanker spoke up. "Zell. We need a screwdriver, or a little crowbar, or something. Got one of those in that belt of yours?"  
  
"Mmph," Zell said through a mouthful of flashlight. Putting one of his tools down on his chest, he fumbled for something in the belt and tossed it out from under the machine. There was a soft _clang_ as it hit the opposite wall, and Tanker cursed softly as he retrieved it.  
  
"Nice throw."  
  
Zell went back to work, but his immediate concentration was broken by the creaking of a panel being pulled from its resting place. There was the sound of cables being moved around and something electrical booting up, and the panel was placed back. "Shoddy job," Siobhan muttered, "but not _that_ obvious. Best we can do for now. Zell! Need help, down there?"  
  
Zell managed a noise that sounded like an "Uh-uh," squinting to see one of the smaller components. He was having a bit of trouble moving things around in such cramped quarters, but he had a feeling that Siobhan wouldn't know what was what in the jumble of mechanical odds and ends he was confronting.  
  
"Well, hurry up with it," Tanker snapped. "Siob's already done. We're waiting on you."  
  
"Tanker?" Siobhan spoke up.  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
There was a rustle, and a few footsteps. "Never mind. What time do you have?"  
  
"Ten forty."  
  
"Five minutes, give or take. We've got time."  
  
Zell snapped a small something into a larger something else, hoping that that was the right connection. When the Estharans made a prototype of anything, there was usually only a slim chance that it would be compatible with anything else--the market was practically inundated with connectors, adapters, interfacers, and all manner of things designed to make machines work together no matter what. It would be nearly impossible to recognize all of them on sight--but Zell was doing a pretty good job of muddling through things on his own, especially given the time (and space) constraints he had to work with.  
  
There was something reassuring about the way everything was fitting together in the engine--something that gave him an added bit of reassurance that he wasn't just going insane. That information was welcome, after the trials of the morning.  
  
Machines were, to Zell's mind, really, _really_ cool. It was awesome to see how everything fit together, making something big and powerful--how tiny things like screws and capacitors and wires and gears could turn into something that could do so much more than what any of the individual parts could do. And when they were running, everything looked so complicated--things turning against each other, moving about or back and forth, bending in certain places to do certain things, but all working together in a way that was really complicated, but still... understandable. Knowing about them felt like knowing the secrets of the universe---like being able to see every cause and effect in one of Lauten's Advanced Tactics quizzes.  
  
And, of course, with machines--unlike most aspects of life--there was usually a quick and dirty way to get through things.  
  
He punched the underside of the engine once to make sure everything was connected, and slid out from under it. "All done," he said. "Let's go!"  
  
Tanker turned, heading out as fast as he could without making it _look_ as if he was trying his best to get the hell away. Stopping for a moment to inform the guards at the door that "It was mostly all right. A few loose screws, but we caught 'em," he lead them out of the _Harpoon_ and into the sunlight of the Bay's southern docks. He waited until they were out of the Desperados' line-of-sight and earshot before turning and giving his team a savage grin. "Mission accomplished. The _Kobayashi Maru_ will be here by Two. 'til then, we're on standby." He stretched, giving a broad wink to Siobhan. "You know what that means?"  
  
Siobhan looked as if she couldn't care less if she was dead. "It means we wait for the ship."  
  
"It means _shore leave_, babes! Rendezvous back here at one thirty, to be safe. Until then, do whatever. _I'm_ heading into town. Wanna come with?"  
  
Siobhan's lip curled. "No."  
  
Tanker shrugged. "Right-o. Oh, and ditch the threads. Don't need anyone recognizing us. Siob, c'_mon_. Town is fu-un...."  
  
Siobhan didn't dignify that with a response.  
  
Tanker shrugged again. "Right. Well, have fun." He cast a glance at Zell. "And you can... go punch something. Or something."  
  
Tanker wandered off, and Zell decided to try his luck at commandeering the conversation--such as it was. "Geez, what's his problem?"  
  
Siobhan gave him a _look_. "Huh. We really _do_ need to talk about that head of yours."  
  
"Huh?"  
  
Siobhan unzipped the jumpsuit, stepping out of it. She was thin, but solidly built--loose black pants and a green tank top suggesting that she was some kind of martial artist. She certainly didn't look as if she was accustomed to carrying a weapon around, at least. "Do you remember anything about last night?" she asked.  
  
Zell shook his head. "Not really."  
  
"Do you remember anything about this _mission_?"  
  
Zell thought. "Kinda," he said. "Tanker's in charge, and we were supposed to sabotage the _Harpoon_. It's a Desperado ship, and they're deserters from the Army, which is why Esthar wants us to get rid of them. So we had to get the IDA, which did something, and...."  
  
"All right, all right," Siobhan said, motioning him to shut up. "First off, the Desperados aren't deserters. Try 'mutineers.' They stole the _Harpoon_, which is a prototype impulse submarine. This town in a safe haven for crooks and the like--the Government can't touch it. So they hired us to sabotage the _Harpoon_, so that they could catch her on the open seas."  
  
Zell nodded. "Okay."  
  
"The IDA fakes readouts. We set it to fake a diagnostic readout, so that the impulse engine would show up as still online even after you disconnected it. That's why we needed it."  
  
Zell nodded. "Okay...."  
  
"We had to retrieve it from a Desperado group on the mainland a bit north of here last night. Tanker and I were busy making sure that the Desperados hired us as their maintenance officers instead of anyone else, but you said that you could handle it. Well, you got it, but there was a bit of a scuffle--that's what you reported last night, at least. You killed both assailants, but one of them clocked you on the back of the head with some kind of 'magical thing.' It KO'd your GFs inside your skull, and scrambled all of your paramagic. It's not like I was around to examine you, but I'd bet a gil to a gold brick that all of the paramagical signals running through your brain are scrambling your memory. Once we get you back to Garden and unjunction you, everything should sort itself out. Until then, just ask questions and play the rest by ear."  
  
That seemed like a good enough plan to Zell. "...hey, what's up with Tanker?"  
  
"Tanker?" Siobhan snorted. "He was _born_ on the wrong side of the bed. Ignore him."  
  
"Why's he in charge?"  
  
"Because he has seniority, and because he's familiar with the area."  
  
"Oh."  
  
"Take off the jumpsuit."  
  
Zell looked down, and realized that he had forgotten to get out of his disguise. Pulling it off, he undid the bandage around his face as well. "...where are we supposed to put these?"  
  
Siobhan looked around. "Well, we're in a warehouse district; one of these places is bound to have a maintenance closet. We'll hide them there. Or would could hide them under these crates here." She knocked a knuckle against the wooden slats of one of the crates in question. Grabbing Zell's jumpsuit, she stuffed it along with hers underneath the crate, into the soft sand beneath. Standing up, she stretched lithely and cast an eye down toward the docks. "I'm hungry," she announced. "Let's go get some cheap, unhealthy food at a disreputable establishment in the bad part of town. No visit to the South Side Docks is complete without it."  
  
Zell had the feeling he was missing something. "What?"  
  
Siobhan gave him a tired look. "Just follow me."  
  
-   
  
If the grime, dirt and general disrepair of South Side didn't convince one of its less-than-optimal character, the frequent sideways glances and constant air of distrust the inhabitants displayed probably would.  
  
At first Zell thought Siobhan was leading him down all the back alleyways to get to wherever they were going, but after _seeing_ one of the back alleys, he decided that he had been wrong. South Side was not an inviting place--and what Siobhan had said about getting food at a disreputable establishment was beginning to make sense. In this town, it would be impossible to find a reputable one.  
  
And as for the 'bad part' of town....  
  
As far as Zell could tell, there wasn't a _good_ part.  
  
Siobhan apparently wasn't much of a conversationalist, and Zell wasn't sure how much he was annoying her with his memory problems. So--for the moment, at least--he opted to stare at the town as he passed through it, and try to figure out anything he might or might not need to know that way. Siobhan seemed to know where she was going, so he didn't need to know his way around the place--which was a good thing, considering the way that the streets were laid down in a casually haphazard manner, half-intersections and blind corners accenting a crisscross of roads that gave the impression that whoever had designed the city--if there had actually been a rational design behind it--hadn't had a protractor and had just chosen a different angle for each intersection hoping that one day he would hit upon the lucky ninety degrees. Some of the streets gave the impression that he hadn't had a ruler, either--they meandered, crooked or winding, around mass-produced buildings and shoddy lean-tos.  
  
It was really, really hard to believe that anyone actually _lived_ here.  
  
Finally, he asked the question he had been wanting to ask since they had left the docks. "What it _up_ with this place?"  
  
Siobhan cast a glance over her shoulder. "It's South Side," she said, as if that explained everything. "Right out of effective taxation range of the Estharan bureaucracy. People come here to live if they don't care too much about the law. Sure, they employ their own Marshals--but the Marshals don't do much more than make sure important people don't get killed and sell protection services to the highest bidder. It's as close as you can really get to a total anarchy. No one runs this place--unless you consider the people in charge of the utilities as major city powers. No laws, no taxes... you give a guess what sort of people that attracts."  
  
"So... South Side is basically an outlaw town, right?"  
  
"Right." That seemed to end the conversation on Siobhan's part, and Zell went back to being amazed at the sheer volume of grunge that could fit into a single city street.  
  
After a few moments, Siobhan lead him into another building development and to a long, low building with a flickering neon sign that read **JO**E**S**. The E looked as if it had burned out a very long time ago--but, then again, replacing neon letters was probably not as high a priority in this town as it might have been in other places.  
  
A Marshal stood at the door--recognizable by his red jacket and the black swooping eagle emblazoned on its breast pocket. He gave them each a disinterested look as they stepped inside.  
  
Zell glanced around, something tugging at his memory. "We were here yesterday, weren't we?"  
  
"Five points in the memory game," Siobhan confirmed. "Rumor has it that it's the only decent place to eat here. If you can call this place decent."  
  
There was no line at the orders counter, due to the time still being slightly before the lunch hour. Siobhan gave the menu only a cursory glance before placing her order.  
  
"Burger and fries. And a bottled water."  
  
The cashier keyed the order in, and glanced at Zell. "...hotdog," Zell decided. "And... water."  
  
"Bottled," Siobhan corrected for him.  
  
The cashier rang it up, glancing back to the kitchen. Siobhan paid quietly, accepting the paper bag as the man handed it to her. She turned and found a booth to sit in--one positioned near enough to the door to be able to slip out easily, but far enough away that they had some warning time if anyone came in. "You don't trust tap water in this place," she said. "...well, _I_ don't."  
  
"...yeah," Zell said. "I remember."  
  
Siobhan dug her food out of the bag, wrinkling her nose. "So, how much _do_ you remember?"  
  
Zell scratched the back of his head thoughtfully. "I kinda remember all about the mission," he said. "I don't remember yesterday, and I'm kinda fuzzy on stuff before that."  
  
"'Stuff before that?' I'm assuming you didn't forget your _entire_ life up to this point?"  
  
"What? No... just about a week or something. Maybe a bit less. What day is it?"  
  
"Friday."  
  
"So, less than a week. I remember that counselor guy!"  
  
Siobhan raised an eyebrow. "Maynard Manning, PHD? Lucky you. That's something I would be _trying_ to forget."  
  
"He was really boring," Zell agreed.  
  
"Boring? the man was in_sane_. All psychologists probably are. And he probably couldn't tell a GF from a Grendel. The seminar wasn't much more than a bad way to waste three hours."  
  
"No kidding." Zell grinned, took a bite out of his hotdog, and grimaced. "This this tastes awful," he complained.  
  
Siobhan raised an eyebrow at him, looking pretty amused. "Really?"  
  
"Yeah." Zell put the hotdog down, glancing up at her. "It's really... what?"  
  
"You said the exact same thing last night," Siobhan said. "It's kinda funny to see you make the same mistake twice."  
  
Zell stared at her for a moment, then grinned sheepishly. "This is really weird," he said.  
  
Siobhan gave him a very, _very_ understated smile. "You know," she said, "you're kinda cute when you're oblivious."  
  
Zell blinked, and then found himself grinning involuntarily. "Uh..." he began, rubbing the back of his neck. "Th-thanks." _(I think.)_  
  
"Zell?"  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
Siobhan raised an eyebrow. "You're grinning like a Geezard. Stop it."  
  
Zell colored slightly. "Sorry."  
  
"Don't worry about it."  
  
Zell motioned to Siobhan's as-yet-unopened food, not-so-expertly changing the subject. "Is the burger good?"  
  
She glanced down at the burger, unwrapped it, and took a bite. "Dry as old socks, and not too much flavor to it," she said. "But I've had worse. I'm not going to be picky. Not _here_, anyway. I'm just glad it's not laced with--what's that?"  
  
Zell glanced around. "What?"  
  
"Tanker." Siobhan stuffed her food back into the bag, getting up. "C'mon. Outside."  
  
Zell barely had time to feed his hotdog to the nearest trash can before Siobhan was out the door, and he followed her as fast as he could. Tanker spun around as she came up behind him, wiping his palms on his jeans. "Siob!" he said, managing to sound worried and arrogant at the same time. "I was looking for you."  
  
"No kidding." Siob took in Tanker's face--sweaty and flushed, as if he had just been running. "What's going on?"  
  
"The Kobayashi Maru came into port early--which is a damn good thing. We've got to get out of here."  
  
"What? Why?"  
  
"The _Harpoon_ just blew up leaving the harbor. We've been ID'd as the maintenance workers, and the landbound Desperados are after us."  
  
_(...it blew up?!)_  
  
"Great. After us like what? For questioning, or--"  
  
Tanker's jacket slipped down off his right shoulder, revealing an oozing wound. Tanker inclined his head slightly. "Like hell, for questioning. They're out for revenge."  



	3. The Kobayashi Maru

**_Layer 002:  
The Kobayashi Maru_**  
  
This time, Zell was getting to see South Side's back alleys up close and personal.  
  
One thing that he had neither realized nor remembered was that both Tanker and Siobhan were _fast._ He was no slouch when it came to running, either--but he was built much more along the lines of endurance than speed, and found himself struggling to keep up as they took full advantage of their longer legs.  
  
Navigating the city wasn't easy at the best of times, and Zell found that he was getting thoroughly lost as Tanker lead them on the scenic route back toward the Docks. The team leader seemed to know where he was going, though, so he had to assume it would work out all right in the end.  
  
Of course, that assumption was thoroughly shaken as Tanker skidded to a halt on the gravel road just behind the warehouse where Zell had spent the night, cursing prolifically.  
  
"Don't tell me," Siobhan groaned. "You got us here because that's the only system of safe roads you knew, and now you have no idea how to get us down to the Docks without having us riddled with machine gun fire."  
  
"Hey, if you had a better idea, I would have listened," Tanker said. "I guess we _could_ have gone through the trolley rails to the Docks. Nice and quiet, there. Yeah, we could have gone that way, if we took a shortcut _right through central square_!"  
  
Zell was bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet, adrenaline flowing. "So? Where now?"  
  
"Hold _still_, rookie," Tanker snapped. "You're making me sick just watching you."  
  
Zell froze, hands balling into fists. "_What_... did you call me?"  
  
"Not _now_!" Siobhan stepped between then, turning to Tanker. "Where are we going?"  
  
Tanker brushed it off. "We either go down the straight and narrow between the warehouses--which leaves us _terribly_ open to ambush--or we run through the delta intersection where all the cargo trucks are. You just _know_ how busy it's likely to be at the moment."  
  
"Straight and narrow gets my vote," Siobhan said. "We haven't been attacked yet. We'll see how long our luck holds out."  
  
Tanker cast a look at Zell. "Get over it," he snapped. "Straight and narrow, right around back. Move it!"  
  
Zell forcibly relaxed his hands, and ran back along the side of the warehouse. Siobhan overtook him, darting down the passage and scouring it quickly for any enemies. "All clear from my view," she called back. "Let's get this run done with."  
  
"Yah, I'm not the one waiting," Tanker retorted, taking the lead once again. Siobhan glanced at Zell, and resumed running.  
  
The access road was dark, as usual--shielded from the light by the two mammoth warehouses whose walls formed its boundaries. The hum of giant cooling fans filled the passage, creating currents of wind as they sucked air in to circulate within the buildings. Dumpsters were placed periodically along the road, next to the grey service doors that blended almost perfectly with the nondescript walls. On his way over to the Docks earlier, Zell had been too preoccupied to notice much about the straight and narrow--but now that he _was_ noticing things, he wasn't liking what he saw. Tanker had been right--the place was the perfect grounds for an ambush, with no way in or out except the ends of the road, plenty of hiding spots, and sound largely blocked out by the fans. If the Desperados _did_ find them here....  
  
Zell chanced a glance back behind his shoulder, and was rewarded by the sight of a perfectly empty road. He felt... a bit relieved.  
  
Tanker was out in front, sprinting as if he had a dragon on his tail. Siobhan was keeping up about a pace behind him, and the pair of them were a couple of meters ahead of Zell. Tanker kept tugging at his jacket, apparently trying to keep it from slipping down his shoulder. Zell had never noticed it before, but the jacket seemed a bit too large--even for Tanker's solid frame. It was flapping quite dramatically as he ran.  
  
They were almost through the straight and narrow when Siobhan slid to a halt, spun around--and leaped almost a half-meter as a bullet hit the ground where she had been standing. "Cover!" she snapped, landing and lunging behind a dumpster. Tanker followed her, and Zell ducked behind the previous bin, pressing himself up against the wall.  
  
"Oh, great," Tanker griped. "Well, what's this all about?"  
  
"Guy with a pistol," Siobhan responded. "End of the road. Just one, but that could be all it takes if we can't get to him."  
  
"Well. Anyone have magic with a long casting range?"  
  
"At last count, Zell had a few Meltdowns. Right, Zell?"  
  
Zell checked his mental inventory. "Yeah," he said, peeking around the dumpster edge. "Uh... where is he?"  
  
Siobhan poked her head out, glancing down the road. "Huh," she said. "I think he's gone."  
  
"Can't you, like, scan--or something?" Tanker sounded annoyed. "Or are we just going to hide behind trash cans until you think it's safe?"  
  
There was a muttered grumble, and a short pause. "I'm not picking anything up, except--oh shit."  
  
"Wha--oh, _shit._"  
  
"What?" Zell finished what Tanker hadn't gotten a chance to.  
  
"Hey, how's everyone for a game of _mad rush_?" Taker asked. "Siob? Zell? On my count, we move. I just _know_ those shadows over by the road exit aren't _Bon Voyage_ banners."  
  
"Three on the left, five on the right," Siobhan confirmed. Zell glanced around, unable to see much from his vantage.  
  
"So we just charge out and beat 'em up, right?"  
  
Tanker would probably have given him a condescending look if there wasn't a dumpster between them. "Yeah, that would be the general idea."  
  
"Well, what are we waiting for?"  
  
Tanker gave a low chuckle. "The rookie raises a good point," he said. "Let's go."  
  
_(Tch. Rookie!)_ Zell would have said something, but Tanker had already sprung the gun. Within two seconds he had closed the distance between himself and the shadows, and there was the noise of a heavy punch being thrown. Zell and Siobhan launched themselves from hiding as soon as they saw Tanker, covering the few remaining meters and joining the fray.  
  
One of the things that always seemed counterintuitive about fighting organized groups with guns was that the more there were, the less likely you were to get shot. The Desperados were armed with machine guns, and their opponents were surrounded and not staying still--there was almost more of a chance that a bullet would go stray and hit one of the other soldiers than one of the SeeDs.  
  
Of course, being soldiers as opposed to thugs with guns, they did each have a considerable amount of training in hand-to-hand, as well.  
  
Zell was in his element. Prospect of grave physical harm aside, he enjoyed fighting even more than he enjoyed machinery. He wasn't exactly belligerent--no, that was the word you used for people who _started_ fights. Zell prided himself on being able to _end_ them.  
  
Martial arts were cool. They were something to do with the nervous energy he always seemed to have too much of--they took precision, skill, and a good deal of strength behind them all. And knowing how to deliver a good, solid punch was way, _way_ better than knowing how to pull a trigger--no matter where, when or what, Zell Dincht was always going to be able to pack a punch. For a martial artist, there was no such thing as 'unarmed.'  
  
...which was why, he remembered--catching a glimpse of Siobhan and Tanker brawling in the midst of the diminishing Desperado ranks--SeeD had sent three of them on a mission where, as likely as not, there would be no way for them to handle weapons and infiltration at the same time.  
  
Tanker's injured shoulder didn't seem to be bothering him much, Zell decided--turning from finishing off one of the enemies and seeing Tanker dispatch the last one with a roundhouse punch that probably snapped his opponent's neck. Tanker spun around, the light of an adrenaline high still shining in his eyes. "Haven't had a good fight in ages," he crowed. "You two hurt?"  
  
Siobhan stretched. "They got a few punches in," she said impassively. "I've had worse in training."  
  
"Let's _go_, then!" Tanker pointed down to the docks, singling out the sleek clipper on the near edge. "She's the _Kobayashi Maru_. Real beaut, ain't she? Let's not keep her waiting!"  
  
-  
  
The _Kobayashi Maru_ was, without a doubt, the most pretentiously classy ship in the South Side docks. With a highly-polished black hull and sleek design, she rode high in the water and projected a sense of pride from bow to stern. A figurehead--an eagle--jutted from the prow, eyes a glinting silver.  
  
They met with no resistance on the way down, although Siobhan guessed that the last batch had radioed for reinforcements before the fight. Tanker had gone ahead to bribe the captain into rushing the scheduled departure, leaving Siobhan and Zell to be escorted to their reserved cabin.  
  
It took Zell until he saw the woman who came to escort him to realize that the _Kobayashi Maru_ was a Marshal ship--or, at least, it employed them. That might explain why it looked so nice--being the only peacekeeping authorities in South Side, they were bound to rake in a considerable amount of capital.  
  
Just to make sure, he took the chance to ask "So this is a Marshal ship, huh?" as soon as the Marshal left them alone in the cabin.  
  
Siobhan glanced around, snorting. "Looks like they stole the cabin design from the Balamb trains, added some chairs, and refitted it for sea travel," she said. "Yeah. The Marshals have three ships--the _Kobayashi Maru_, the _Yangtzee Kiang_, and the _Tripoli_. They're hired out as just about everything--cruise ships, naval escorts, smuggling vessels... you name it, the Marshals probably do it. They're mercenaries, you know--they'll do about anything for the right price."  
  
Zell moved to the couch, dropping down onto it. "Tanker said that the _Harpoon_ blew up, didn't he?"  
  
Siobhan nodded. "Sounded like he did."  
  
"How?" Zell cracked his knuckles. "Nothing we did--right?"  
  
"Well, gee, I _hope_ not." Siobhan rolled her eyes. "Does it matter? Garden will take care of the Esthar contract, the Desperados hate us regardless, and there's no way to prove it one way or another."  
  
Zell stared at her incredulously. "You don't even care?"  
  
"Not really, no."  
  
Zell shook his head. "You don't care about much, do you?"  
  
"Not really, no."  
  
"You remind me of Squall," Zell said, punctuating the remark with a few jabs of his index finger. "You ever worked with him?"  
  
Siobhan glanced over. "I wouldn't talk about him too much," she said. "Tanker, you know."  
  
Zell crossed his arms. "Huh? Oh, geez. What's his problem, anyway?"  
  
"Aside from being a sleaze and an asshole?" Siobhan cast a wary glance toward the door. "Listing every personality flaw Tanker has would take up the rest of the trip."  
  
"I don't think he likes me too much," Zell pointed out.  
  
"You don't _think_?" Siobhan returned his earlier incredulous look, multiplied by about a factor of ten. "Zell, if he wasn't in SeeD he would _kill_ you."  
  
Zell scratched the back of his head. "I don't remember him too well, so I had to meet him on this mission," he said. "What'd I do?"  
  
The door slid open, and Tanker stepped in. "We're off," he said, with a cockeyed grin. "Hey, memory boy! You look confused. There a problem?"  
  
Siobhan decided to sit in one of the corner chairs and make herself as innocuous as possible. She had noticed the peculiar glint in his eyes that said his adrenaline high was wearing off--and with Tanker, that would mean he would be thinking up ways to build it back up.  
  
Zell glanced up, dropping his hand into his lap. "No problem," he said.  
  
Tanker stretched, pulling off his coat and tossing it into the corner. Clapping a hand to his shoulder, he rotated his arm and winced. "_That's_ the good pain," he said, grinning at Siobhan. "If you don't bleed a bit on these missions, you're playing it too easy. Toss me a potion and a bandage, babes."  
  
Siobhan recovered the items from her pack, and tossed them to Tanker. Tanker flashed a grin by way of thanks, binding up his injury. After a few moments he glanced over at Zell, grunting. "What're you looking at, rookie?" he demanded. "Never seen blood before?"  
  
Zell stood up, glaring at his team leader. "I'm not a rookie," he said.  
  
Tanker secured the bandage, stepping over to Zell and using his height to loom over him. "How many years have you been in SeeD?" he asked, tapping a finger in the center of Zell's chest.  
  
"This is my first," Zell admitted. "But--"  
  
"Then you're a rookie."  
  
"--I've been on plenty of missions," Zell finished.  
  
"I'm a fourth-year SeeD," Tanker said. "Siob there is a third-year. We've both seen things that you probably wouldn't have any idea how to deal with."  
  
"Tanker," Siobhan warned. Tanker ignored her.  
  
"I--" Zell started, but was immediately cut off.  
  
"I don't know what made them send you along with us, but you've been mostly trouble since you got assigned. I've been meaning to ask you what the _hell_ you were thinking back at the warehouse last night. You could have gotten us all killed."  
  
"What?" Zell was caught off-guard--much as Tanker had expected him to be.  
  
"Oh, of course. You don't _remember_." Tanker glowered at him. "I suppose you don't remember this morning, either?"  
  
Siobhan appeared at Tanker's elbow, putting a hand on his uninjured shoulder--which, incidentally, required her to interpose her arm between him and Zell. "Sit down, Tanker. Take this up back at Garden."  
  
Tanker pushed her away, not even deigning to glance at her. "It ever occur to you that the fact you _got_ that injury that's messing up your head so much might be another indication of poor performance? You've been a liability since the mission began, _rookie_. Don't think it won't be reflected in my report."  
  
Zell was quivering now, fisting his hands and hardly restraining himself. "I told you," he said, unable due to his memory to produce any evidence to prove he hadn't been grossly incompetent. "I'm not a _rookie_."  
  
Tanker looked him up and down, and stepped back. "You look like you want to hit something," he sneered. "Gonna attack your team leader?"  
  
Zell's jaw worked for a moment, and he forced himself to relax. "No. ...sir."  
  
"Well, why not?" Tanker spread his arms. "You look like you want to."  
  
Siobhan stepped up again, stepping between them so that he didn't have any choice but to look at her. "Sit down, Tanker."  
  
Tanker put his arms down. "Why?" he asked. "Zell and I have some issues we need to work out between us."  
  
"You're picking a fight," Siobhan said. "You know, I can turn in a mission report, too. How're you going to look in it?"  
  
At the moment, Tanker looked unimpressed. "I'm in charge here," he said, "and I'm giving orders. _You_ sit down, Siob." He flicked his hand, indicating a chair. Siobhan shook her her head, and sat down.  
  
Tanker turned his attention back to Zell. "Hit me," he challenged.  
  
Much as he wanted to take up the invitation, Zell didn't. "No," he said, and began silently counting to ten.  
  
He had gotten about to two before Tanker's fist was introduced in a particularly violent manner to his chin.  
  
"That was an _order_, See--" Tanker began. The D sound hadn't made it out of his lips before one was split open by an answering punch from Zell. Tanker caught a second punch, throwing one of his own back and connecting with the side of Zell's head. Zell managed to get a hold on Tanker's forearm, spinning him and throwing him against the wall in one quick movement.  
  
Tanker regained his footing quickly, ramming his palm into Zell's stomach and sending him to the ground. Zell got a foot up into Tanker's face, laying him out on the couch. Tanker made a move to rise, but the white mist of a Sleep spell enveloped him before he could.  
  
Zell stood up, casting a glance first at his felled opponent and then back at Siobhan. She glanced at him, looking exasperated. "You boys," she said, shaking her head. "Sit."  
  
Zell quickly picked a chair and sat, face burning from the sudden action and the realization that he had screwed up, big time. Sure, he had been defending himself--but most of the times he had gotten into serious trouble, he had been defending himself, too.  
  
Siobhan stood up, moving over to Tanker. She made a small _hmph_ noise upon seeing him. "Well, _he_ wanted to bleed a bit," she said. "You all right?"  
  
Zell nodded. "Yeah."  
  
"Looks like you managed to make a few cosmetic alterations to his face," she noted. "At least now he looks more like the bloodthirsty savage he is."  
  
Zell had a feeling that what he was about to ask was going to be a really stupid question, but he asked it anyway. "Why doesn't he like me?"  
  
"Aside from the fact that you're about as jumpy as a frog?" Siobhan returned to her chair, and sat down. "That's easy. I would have thought you could puzzle it out on your own."  
  
Zell glanced at Tanker, and back at Siobhan. Nothing was coming to mind.  
  
Siobhan raised her eyebrows. "Ultimecia," she prompted.  
  
"Um. So?"  
  
"So he's bitter." She glanced at Tanker, stretching out her legs in front of her. "He's a fourth-year SeeD, has more missions under his belt than probably anyone in your circle of friends, and your group shows up and take the most glory-heavy mission that's ever likely to come along. It's not personal, you know. He's just too much of a glory hound for his own good."  
  
Zell grimaced. "Reminds me of Seifer," he said.  
  
To his surprise, Siobhan actually laughed. "_Seifer_? The thought's never crossed my mind."  
  
"Well--"  
  
"Seifer was a puppy," Siobhan said, causing Zell's eyes to expand rapidly to their maximum size. "Tanker is a rabid mutt."  
  
"So, you didn't like Seifer?" Zell asked, still trying to reconcile the concepts of "Seifer" and "puppy" in his mind.  
  
"Didn't have anything against him, really. Didn't have too much contact with him. He was always bullying the younger kids. The _non_-SeeDs." Siobhan glanced at Tanker. "Seifer wasn't your everyday example of sterling goodness," she pronounced, meriting her entrance for the _Understatement of the Year_ awards several times over, "but he wasn't a sociopath."  
  
"And Tanker is?"  
  
Siobhan nodded. "What else do you call someone who joined SeeD so that he could kill for fun?"  
  
-  
  
By the time Tanker woke up, Siobhan had found a logic puzzle stashed in one of the chests and Zell had buried himself in a Combat King and seemed oblivious to the world around him. Tanker sat up, rubbing the back of his head ruefully. "What happened?" he asked.  
  
"I Sleeped you," Siobhan said matter-of-factly. "It seemed like the responsible thing to do, considering you were breeching just about every rule of etiquette that SeeD establishes."  
  
Tanker glared at her. Siobhan raised an eyebrow, not needing to look up from her puzzle to tell what he was doing.  
  
"If you want," she offered, "I could lie and say that Zell beat the crap out of you."  
  
"From now on," Tanker growled, "stay out of _my_ issues."  
  
"Or you'll what?" Siobhan looked up, meeting his glare flatly. "Hit me?"  
  
Tanker seemed flustered for a moment, and then glanced over at Zell. Pulling a hand across his mouth, he winced slightly.  
  
"You might want to get yourself cleaned up," Siobhan suggested. "It won't help your sorry case if you show up at Garden looking like a berserker."  
  
Tanker ran a tongue across his bloody lip, glaring at her all the while. "Yeah," he said. "Maybe I should."  
  
Tanker stood up, stalking out the door in ill grace. Zell glanced up. "You talk to him like that?"  
  
Siobhan shrugged. "We go way back," she said. "And he knows that I can deck him in ten seconds flat if I want to. He just picks on you 'cause you're still a little wet behind the ears."  
  
Zell was about to retort, but Siobhan raised a hand to forestall him.  
  
"I don't mean to offend, but it _is_ pretty clear you haven't been on too many missions. Don't take it wrong."  
  
Zell hunched up, staring at the magazine again. Siobhan was certainly a hard one to read--he was never quite sure whose side she was on, or even if she _was_ on a side. And he wasn't quite sure how she saw him--or if he ran the risk of annoying her with anything he might say.  
  
He glanced up, intending to see if he could read anything from her normally impassive face--and saw something that was definitely not impassive. Siobhan had turned to the door, and had an intense expression of worried _listening_ to her. Zell was about to stand up, but Siobhan held up a hand to stop him--then lurched form her chair herself. "Something's--"  
  
The sharp noise of a bullet interrupted her, followed almost instantly by an expression of pain that could only come from Tanker. Within seconds Siobhan and Zell had crouched, one on either side of the door, listening at the ready to attack.  
  
There was silence in the cabin for several tense heartbeats. Siobhan put her ear to the wall. "No one's out there," she said.  
  
"What happened?"  
  
Siobhan shook her head. "Damned if I know. Sounded like Tanker got shot."  
  
"Yeah, I know that, but--" Zell looked at the door, wishing he knew what was going on outside. "Shouldn't we go out there?"  
  
Siobhan's eyes unfocused. "Fenrir isn't Alerting me to anyone out there," she said, "but I don't trust it. The Marshals don't allow firearms on their ship. So, either one of them shot Tanker, or someone overpowered them--in which case, we're probably dealing with Desperados. Either way, we're liable to be outnumbered."  
  
"So?" Zell looked at the door again. "Do we just wait in here?"  
  
"Well, that's one option," Siobhan said. "That means we wait for them to make the first move, and I don't know if I like that. They could be taking the ship somewhere we don't want it to go, and we would never know." She pursed her lips for a moment. "On the other hand, whoever's out there might not even be aware of us. This could have nothing to do with us, and by going out we'd just be putting ourselves in needless danger. But somehow, I doubt that."  
  
"So we're going to rescue Tanker?"  
  
"Well, we're sure as hell going to _try_." Siobhan shifted uncomfortably. "It won't look too good for us if we go home without a team leader. That, and we can try to gain an advantage. The Desperados--or whoever they are--probably don't have our best interests at heart. We can take the fight to them, if we don't want to wait for them to bring it to us."  
  
Zell stood up, bouncing slightly. "Well, what are we waiting for?" he demanded. "Let's kick ass and take names!"  
  
"Calm down," Siobhan snapped. "Or first priority is--well, our _first_ is to rescue Tanker. But it's going to be pretty important to evade detection. All right--our first priority is reconnaissance. We find out all that we can about what's going on and what they've done with Tanker, and when we've know all we need to know we smack them down like bugs. Sound about right?"  
  
Zell grinned, throwing a few punches for emphasis. "Let's go!"  
  
-  
  
The hall was empty, save for a few drops and a small smear of blood. Siobhan checked both ways down the hall, and then bent to examine the stain. "Well," she said, "he wasn't _dragged_ wherever he was going. That's about all I can tell."  
  
"So... left or right?"  
  
"The _Kobayashi Maru_ is an Estharan clipper. It has three decks--the main deck, passenger deck and machine deck. If I had to guess, I would say that Tanker still has to be on this deck--they wouldn't chance keeping prisoners near the vital systems, especially if we were suspect for sabotaging the _Harpoon_, and I can't see why they'd take him up for fresh air."  
  
"So we just have to search this deck."  
  
"Well, we'll have to search the others if we don't find him."  
  
"Should we split up?"  
  
"I wouldn't. No telling what we might run into."  
  
"So... left, or right?"  
  
Siobhan glanced each direction. "Right, I guess."  
  
"Right" was a very unremarkable hallway, just as "left" probably was. Doors marked the walls at regular intervals, most of them unlocked. The first three they checked were cabins--much like theirs, and totally devoid of inhabitants. The next was a bathroom, followed by another set of cabins. The final room was a janitor's closet with a washing/drying machine at the back--and then there were the stairs down into the engine room, quite solidly locked.  
  
"Backtrack," Siobhan stated needlessly. "Let's try left."  
  
"Left" was--unsurprisingly--unremarkable, except that its pattern of cabins and bathrooms continued around in a horseshoe pattern which was broken at the center by an open stairway up to the main deck. Nothing was out of order until they got to the second-to-last cabin in the series--which was, unlike any other--locked.  
  
Siobhan tested the handle, then glanced at Zell. Motioning him to hide on the far edge of the door, she pressed herself against the wall and delivered a heel kick to its bottom part. A second was spent in expectant silence.  
  
Shrugging minutely, Siobhan stepped away from the wall and kicked the door as hard as she could just to one side of the knob. The door cracked and swung open, and Siobhan dropped into a ready position to confront whatever was inside the room....  
  
...however, nothing inside the room seemed terribly intent on attacking anyone at the moment.  
  
"Holy shit."  
  
Zell stepped into the doorway, taking in the sight of twelve Marshals--dead or unconscious, probably some of each. they were bound hand and foot, thrown into the cabin without any regard for comfort or order. It was a jumbled mass of red-uniformed people, visible skin mottled with bruises.  
  
"Well, at least we know it wasn't the Marshals," Siobhan observed.  
  
Zell stepped gingerly into the cabin, looking around. "I thought they knew how to fight?"  
  
Siobhan nodded. "Marshals usually do. Which means they were bested."  
  
"Desperados." Zell did a quick body count, and came up with numbers he didn't like.  
  
"Maybe not." Siobhan nudged one of the inert bodies with her toe, rolling it completely over. Zell paled slightly--it was the same woman who had shown them to their cabin. "All of these are blunt-weapon injuries. Every Desperado we've seen has had a gun--but there are no bullet wounds on these people."  
  
Zell's hand moved to the back of his head to scratch, and he froze. "Wait," he said. "...the Desperados do use blunt weapons, too!"  
  
Siobhan gave him the strangest look.  
  
"The new weapon. It was a prototype, right? The one that messed up my memory." Zell rubbed the bruise, which was nearly healed. "It was some kind of rod. Club. Thing."  
  
Siobhan crossed her arms, looking very, very grave. "Zell," she said heavily. "Tell me everything you remember about that fight."  
  
Zell tried to think, memory slicing trough layers of fog to arrive at... nothing. "I... I can't remember."  
  
Siobhan's piercing gaze bored into him for a few more moments, and she turned away. "Let's take a look on the main deck. We're not heading into the Engine room unless we can't help it."  
  
Zell glanced back over the downed Marshals. "What do we do with them?"  
  
"Let the ones who wake up take care of the ones who won't," Siobhan suggested. We have more immediate issues. Follow me."  
  
Siobhan didn't sound as if she was especially unaccustomed to command. Zell followed her lead automatically.  
  
The last room was a small, utilitarian galley with absolutely nothing out of place. Siobhan didn't say a word before she motioned him to move on.  
  
Siobhan was on the lookout as she moved, checking down each of the horseshoe's legs before pausing at the base of the stairs. "All clear," she said after a moment of silence. "Nothing in the immediate range."  
  
Siobhan darted up the stairs, crouching in the sunlight at the top and looking around. Zell was beside her almost immediately, scanning the deck and squinting in the glare.  
  
"...all clear again," Siobhan said, standing. "That structure up front is the navigator's cabin. It's the only enclosed space up here. If Tanker's not in there...."  
  
"Then we break into the engine room?"  
  
Siobhan motioned Zell ahead. "You care to do the honors?"  
  
Zell glanced around the exposed deck, heading up to the cabin door and delivering a kick without any ado. The door flew open, and Zell rushed in.  
  
Given the shape of the cabin, there was only one real position for an enemy to be. Anticipating this, Zell rushed in without hesitation--knowing that, _if_ there was anyone there, he could engage and incapacitate them before they could get a weapon up and ready.  
  
Refreshingly, his plan worked. The single Desperado in the cabin was stretched out on the floor by two punches, and Zell had relieved him of his machine gun by the time Siobhan stepped through the door. She glanced at the soldier's supine form, letting out a small sigh. "I suppose the concept of interrogation doesn't mean much to you, does it?" she asked.  
  
A flaw suddenly became apparent in Zell's plan.  
  
"Well, no Tanker," Siobhan said. "Engine room it is, then. Give me the gun."  
  
Zell handed over the weapon, following Siobhan as she lead him back to the engine room entrance. Tapping on it softly, she shook her head.  
  
"Tough door. This one is solid metal--not the type of thing we're going to get through too easily."  
  
"So what do we do?" Zell looked the door up and down. It only opened inward, and a narrow metal protrusion protected the hinges from outside tampering. The only visible indication of the lock was a small key slit--not the sort of thing you could easily break without jamming it. "We could use some kind of magic, I guess."  
  
Siobhan glared at the offending door. "I don't want to, but I don't see that we have much of a choice," she said. "Be ready for anything once we go through there. The odds _won't_ be in our favor."  
  
Zell nodded, shuffling through his magic in preparation to cast. _(...Meltdown.)_  
  
In about three seconds, the door was gone--but neither Zell nor Siobhan was ready for what they encountered.  
  
Which was... darkness.  
  
An awful lot of darkness.  
  
So much, in fact, that they didn't even notice the pain.


	4. REM Memories

**_Layer ???:  
REM Memories_**  
  
Every one of us has nightmares, the counselor was saying, tapping a metal pointer against his thigh. Being mercenaries, you will of course have nightmares of a different and more potent sort than the average person. Now, there is a considerable amount of speculation as to what nightmares are, how they originate, what they mean... all of this is inconsequential. Over the next few days, my job is to teach you methods of coping and controlling your nightmares so that they need not run the risk of encroaching upon your personal or professional lives."  
  
If there was one thing Zell took away from the seminar, it was not to fall asleep during a seminar about sleep. The speaker might just make an example out of you.  
  
That was probably why he had woken up screaming as the Pain spell--not really painful, except for the poison effect--flooded his unconscious brain with nightmare. The counselor cast an Esuna immediately, as a matter of course rather than a matter of concern. And that was when he woke up--really woke up. There was something impressive about the way they took the example--soberly, not laughing as he would have expected or maybe even done.  
  
The counselor made a smooth segue into the area of paramagic affecting the brain, but he wasn't listening. The last vestiges of the nightmare were fading from his mind, but he was still quaking.  
  
"The unconscious is a frightening thing," the counselor reassured. "No-one quite knows, at any given time, what's going on or how it will affect the conscious processes. Things affect your unconscious every moment of every day, but your conscious is in control most of the time. However, when you go to sleep, the conscious is largely disabled, and the subconscious takes control--functioning in utterly the same as it does during one's waking hours, except for the fact that it _is_ in control. The same things will affect the subconscious in the same way, as shown by that Pain spell there...."  
  
He'd never really noticed what happened when he was Pained. Sure, he knew he felt sick for a moment, but he chalked that up to the poison.  
  
It was a nasty trick for the counselor to play and he probably knew it, too. There was nothing like learning you absolutely could not trust someone to make your day really suck.  
  
Quistis gave him a knowing look. "Well, you shouldn't have fallen asleep," she said reasonably. "You should have known better, with that injury of yours."  
  
Yeah, he probably should have. But at least the mission was still on, right? He hadn't screwed up _too_ badly.  
  
Most SeeD missions had three or fewer SeeDs assigned....  
  
"Thomas Riles will be the Team Leader. Zell Dincht, you will fill the mission role of mechanics specialist. Siobhan Sierra, you will be this mission's computer expert. Jeshua Drake, you will be the contingency officer. After you take care of your business in South Kay, you're to rendezvous with the local Marshal ship _Kobayashi Maru_. It will take you north to Juska, where you'll meet up with SeeD Drake. If all goes well, it shouldn't take you more than four days. Good luck, team."  
  
He didn't remember Drake at all.  
  
The warehouse wasn't an ideal place to spend the night, but it was the safest spot they could find--and it was nearby, too, which was good considering the headache Zell was developing. Tanker was railing on him for something or other, but he wasn't focusing on anything except not letting the pain nauseate him. Finally Siobhan noticed and... did... something.  
  
He thought.  
  
He didn't think he liked the Desperados.  
  
They hit him twice at least. Once on the temple and once more, harder, at the base of his skull. That was what really got it. Of all the possible people, it was Tanker who rescued him that time--maybe whatever he said, he was still a SeeD at heart. That implied a certain goodness... didn't it?  
  
_(...waitaminnit.)_  
  
Tanker hadn't _been_ there.  
  
He had been hit, and knocked out for a few seconds. They had expected him to be down for longer, and had tried to tie him up. He woke in the middle of it, and kicked them off. Two soldiers, off guard, didn't stand a chance.  
  
Siobhan hadn't done anything, had she? She hadn't even been there. But he had the strongest memory of her helping him back to the warehouse--  
  
This wasn't making any sense.  
  
"It's not working." Siobhan looked impassive, as usual. "We have to try something else."  
  
"Nonsense." Tanker was up against the wall, bloody bandages wrapped around his leg and shoulder. A marble made perfect parabolic arcs as he tossed it from hand to hand. "Zell's a good boy. Follows orders real well. Isn't that _right_, Zell?"  
  
Zell was fascinated by the object in Tanker's hands. It looked like a bullet cartridge, but he couldn't be sure. So he punched Tanker in the face.  
  
Tanker got a grip on his wrists, tightening it unmercifully. "That's not going to help, Zell," he said. "Be reasonable, now. Calm down."  
  
"He's a danger to himself and others," Siobhan was saying. Quistis was nodding solemnly.  
  
"Well, he only joined SeeD to kill people."  
  
_(What? I did?)_  
  
If Siobhan was a third-year SeeD, that meant that she and Quistis might have graduated together. That was an interesting coincidence.  
  
Tanker's hands were cutting into his wrists. He could barely feel his palms any more. "Let go," he snarled, and Tanker leered at him.  
  
"Do you know what a nightmare is, Zell? A nightmare is waking up one morning and finding out that you can't live with anything you were, any way you've acted, anything you've done. We've all been there before. That's why we're here."  
  
_(But I don't **think** I'm unhappy...?)_  
  
"Zell... we're here to help you get better. Don't worry. _Everything is going to be okay_."


	5. Criminal Cases

**_Layer 003:  
Criminal Cases_**  
  
_(Ow ow ow ow owowowowoow!)_  
  
Zell could feel pins and needles all through his hands and feet, and there was a bitter taste in his mouth. A headache was throbbing in the back of his skull, threatening to make him black out again. Fortunately, he didn't seem to be suffering from any additional memory loss--although it occurred to him that he might not know if he _was_.  
  
He opened his eyes, and discovered that he was on the floor. There were machines on the opposite end of the room, and he recognized them as propulsion systems. He was in the engine room.  
  
With the limited range of movement his bonds granted him, he managed to crane his head around. Tanker and Siobhan were nearby, each tied and Tanker gagged. A bandage was wrapped around the team leader's calf, stained the distinctive red-brown of dried blood.  
  
It didn't make sense that their captors would leave them unguarded, but Zell couldn't see anyone from where he was lying. He kicked, only to find that the rope tying his feet was attached to the wall behind him. Curling up, he tried to see if he had enough flexibility to reach the bonds with his hands--but a thin cord he hadn't noticed tightened painfully around his neck before he could.  
  
"They certainly aren't amateurs, are they?"  
  
Zell would have jumped, had he been standing. As it was, the motion came out more as a startled twitch. "Siobhan?"  
  
"The one and only." Siobhan groaned, and Zell did his best wriggle around to face her. "We're trussed up like spring hams," she said. "These people had some training at this stuff. The cord around your neck is metal strangling cord, and the stuff on your wrists has been soaked in poison. We can't gnaw our way out of this one, and you can't get near your feet unless you fancy losing your head. Can you cast anything?"  
  
Zell thought for a moment. "...no," he said.  
  
Siobhan chuckled. "I've got Silence powder in my mouth," she said. "Tastes awful, too. Tanker seems like he's down for the count. I've been awake for maybe an hour, now, listening. Nothing much seems to be going on down here."  
  
"What happened?"  
  
"Damned if I know." Siobhan shifted, very slightly. "If I had to guess, I'd say a stun or a Sleep grenade of some sort. I can remember everything that happened right up to the moment I was knocked out, so it can't have been that rod-club-thing you ran into. Doesn't really matter, now."  
  
Zell was inclined to agree. "Shouldn't we be trying to escape?" he asked.  
  
"We _should_. Can we? Who knows?" Siobhan tugged against the ropes holding her near the wall, meeting with very little success. "I've been through every contortion I can imagine, and I can't get at any way to get free of these damned cords. I tried untying my wrists with my teeth, but I got woozy before I could even loosen the knot. I even tried calling for someone to come in, but no one answered. Unless _you're_ really good at escaping, we might be stuck here for a while."  
  
"Well," Zell said, "They have to untie us sometime. I mean, they don't want to kill us, or they would have, right? So as soon as we're untied--wham! That's when we break out."  
  
There was a dry chuckle. "If the opportunity presents itself."  
  
"Wha--?"  
  
"I mean if they don't knock us out again, or they don't have guns trained on us, or--there are a thousand things that could happen. But _if_ it looks like we have the chance and won't be killed on the spot, we take the opportunity. Get it?"  
  
Zell nodded, managing to not choke himself as he did so. "Okay! ...how long do you think it's going to be?"  
  
"The _Kobayashi Maru_ is a clipper ship. Juska--the northern port, remember? The one we were headed to?--would take us about three and a half hours, and it's one of the farther ports on this side of Esthar. I said I was up for maybe an hour, and I don't know how long I was out. If we're heading to Juska, I'd say that we have maybe a couple of hours or less. Anywhere else, I have no clue. It depends on where they're taking us."  
  
Zell considered that for a moment. There was something very reassuring about Siobhan's tone--she sounded....  
  
_(She **always** sounds as if she has everything under control.)_  
  
Even if--as it was clear in this case--she really, _really_ didn't.  
  
Something occurred to him, dredged up out of memories from the Ultimecia campaign--something about how even people you expected to be in control sometimes weren't. "Siob?"  
  
Siobhan jumped a bit on hearing her nickname, but twisted around enough to look over anyway. "What?"  
  
"Are _you_ all right?"  
  
Siobhan stared at him for a moment. "As right as can be expected," she said. "Why? What happened? You hurt?"  
  
Zell shook his head. "No, just... wondering." He had a feeling that his show of concern had flopped.  
  
"Oh," Siobhan said, and sounded uncomfortable. "...yeah. I'm... well, I'm not _fine_, but I'm okay. And that's really about all I could expect, I think."  
  
If Zell had been slightly more acute in his observations of emotional displays, he would have noticed that Siobhan seemed ever-so-slightly flustered--as if asking her if she was all right had been the most unexpected thing she had ever seen him do. Zell backed off instinctively. "Well," he said, hoping to lighten the atmosphere. "At least we found Tanker."  
  
Siobhan looked away, and Zell had the feeling that his joke had wound up even more left-handed than his query. Looking away from his teammate, he resolved not to open his mouth for the remainder of the trip.  
  
His resolution had lasted for about a minute and a half before he realized he would never be able to keep it.  
  
"Siob?"  
  
There was a low noise from Siobhan. "Don't call me that."  
  
_(Oh. Oops.)_ "Sorry."  
  
Siobhan didn't acknowledge the apology. After a moment, she moved slightly--cloth making a soft sound on the floor. "What?"  
  
_(...oh.)_ "I just wanted to say sorry for whatever I did. ...said."  
  
"What makes you think you said anything you need to apologize for?" Siobhan quietly re-established her place in the corner of Zell's mind reserved for the utterly inscrutable.  
  
Needless to say, Zell was confused. "I... you looked upset. I thought it was something I said."  
  
Siobhan laughed dryly. "Zell?"  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"You really _are_ a rookie."  
  
Zell's mood darkened. "What--what's _that_ supposed to mean?" His fists tried to clench, but the tightening in his bound wrists warned him that it might not be such a good idea.  
  
The dry laugh was repeated. "It doesn't mean a damn thing, and if anyone calls you that, ignore them. You didn't say anything wrong. Just don't call me Siob."  
  
"Sor--"  
  
"And stop apologizing for everything."  
  
Zell shut up. Siobhan didn't _sound_ annoyed--but, then again, her tone wasn't your classical example of amusement, either.  
  
He felt a sudden pang of longing to be back a few months, still working with "the gang" instead of Tanker and Siobhan. At least with them--even with _Squall_, for Hyne's sake--it was possible to _tell_ if they were mad at you.  
  
"Shh," Siobhan urged, and Zell wondered for a moment if he had made a noise. He was about to ask, but then he decided that that would be a bad thing, given what she had said.  
  
A moment later, the door opened. Zell screwed his eyes shut, hoping that whoever was coming would mistake him for still being unconscious. The person came down the stairs into the engine room proper, and an activated Phoenix Down swirled around him. So much for pretensions. Zell opened his eyes, looking up into the face of a well-built Desperado. The man nodded at him slightly, and turned to wake up Siobhan and Tanker. Wordlessly, he returned to Zell and placed his foot squarely on the SeeD's wrists. Bending down, he grabbed Zell's nose and pinched it shut. "Say 'ah,'" he instructed.  
  
Zell, not intending to do anything the man wanted him to, clenched his jaw until the man reached down and pried his jaws apart in order to dropped a small pill into his mouth.  
  
"Swallow," came his terse command, as he clamped a hand over Zell's mouth--effectively cutting off his air until he complied. The pill slipped down his throat, and the man let go and went to perform the same procedure on Siobhan.  
  
A loud gagging noise provided ample evidence that Tanker had discovered the neck bonds the hard way.  
  
Zell's stomach gave an uncomfortable queaze, and the Desperado moved on to Tanker. Tanker cursed something at him and kicked out, but the soldier quietly walked around him out of effective attacking range. Catching Tanker with the same tried and true maneuver he had used on Zell and Siobhan, soon he had fed him a pill as well.  
  
Job done, he turned and walked back up the stairs and out of the room.  
  
Tanker was hacking, trying to cough up the pill with little success. Siobhan had closed her eyes, either in defeat or concentration. There was a slight frown on her face that told Zell that things were going very, very wrong.  
  
He glanced at Tanker, and decided not to say anything. He wasn't quite sure what he would have said, but it seemed like a good idea not to try thinking of something now.  
  
Something wandered into the edge of his vision, and he turned to look at it--only to see nothing there. He felt a wave of heat, and a similar something/nothing passed through his vision on his other side.  
  
He closed his eyes, but the somethings crept in underneath his eyelids. He spent a few moments trying to look away from them and toward them, alternately--each attempt was thwarted as they remained stubbornly at the edge of his vision.  
  
There were heavy footsteps, and something closed around Zell's head. In a few more moments, the world faded to a pleasant sense of nothing.  
  
-  
  
When he woke up the headache had returned, and he was feeling anything but pleasant. He was strapped to some surface--something like a reclining wall, or an inclined bed--and a few hard tugs told him that these straps were no less unrelenting than the ones he had been subjected to back in the _Kobayashi Maru_'s engine room. However, these straps at least allowed him a bit more mobility for his head--by craning his neck around, he was able to take in the room in which he--and, apparently, no one else--was being held.  
  
From what he could see, the contraption holding him in place was in about the center of the room. There was a cluster of lights above him--the one lighting fixture in the room that he could see--and a large screen in front of him. To his left was a nondescript door, and to his right was a tall cabinet. At his left hand was a low table, barely close enough for him to brush the edge with his fingertips. A pale light--natural, most likely, and probably predawn if that was the case--was coming from somewhere behind him.  
  
Glancing down, he looked over the new set of bindings that were ensuring his immobility. He was attached to the bed by straps around his ankles, thighs, waist, elbows, and wrists--each one was a wide leather band with a utilitarian buckle that looked like something he might see in the back Infirmary rooms or some mad scientist's lair.  
  
At his right hand, there was a tiny panel with a central red button and smaller grey ones just above and below it. Acting on a sudden impulse, he pressed it.  
  
At once the light cluster above him turned on, flooding the room with a pure white light. Zell winced, closing his eyes.  
  
The door swung open, and he tried to look through the blinding light to see who it was. The figure approached until it was right by his side, reaching down and taking his pulse at the wrist as if he didn't think Zell was awake.  
  
"Hey," Zell croaked--his throat was unpleasantly dry for some reason. The figure laid a hand on his forehead.  
  
"You're burning up," a feminine voice said. "Wait right here."  
  
Zell didn't quite see how he could avoid waiting right there, so he complied. A moment later something was pressed against his lower lip, and a bitter liquid poured into his mouth. He gagged on it, and it was taken away.  
  
"It will help your head," the woman said. "Drink it. I'll bring something to get the taste out of your mouth."  
  
The glass was replaced, and Zell tried to drink. It was quite possibly the most repulsive thing he had ever tasted--but the fact that as soon as he had swallowed the first gulp his headache began to fade convinced him that the concoction might have some merit.  
  
A white-sleeved arm reached across the bed and pressed one of the grey buttons, slowly tilting the bed back until Zell was staring up at the lights. "Tell me how many lights you see, please," the woman said.  
  
Zell tried to get a good view of the woman's face, but the light was making it difficult. "Where am I?" he decided to croak instead.  
  
"How many lights, please."  
  
Zell looked up, and did a quick count. "Seven."  
  
A moment later something small, solid, and obnoxiously sweet was dropped into his mouth. "Zell Dincht, SeeD Rank 14. SeeD ID, 41270. First-year, fewer than ten missions. Do you know why you're here, Zell?"  
  
_(Because I got kidnapped?)_ "No--"  
  
"You're very sick, Zell. You're lucky we got our hands on you when we did. You need our help; that's why we're keeping you here. You don't need to worry about anything."  
  
"Where _am_ I?"  
  
"You're at Jennings Psychiatric Ward," she said. "We operate here under the auspices of the Estharan Ministry of Charity. I'm Doctor Jessie Cutwell, your observer. Doctor Dexter Fordham will be your caseworker."  
  
The back of his brain quickly added one and two together to come up with something he really didn't like the sound of. "You think I'm _insane_?"  
  
"We don't like to discuss that subject with our patients," Cutwell evaded. "It tends to distress them. If you'll just relax and cooperate with us, then there's no reason that you can't get well quickly--we've had genuine recoveries in as little as a week, even. Rest assured, once we've finished with your rehabilitation you can be on your way--a free, healthy man."  
  
To say that Zell was stunned wouldn't do justice to what he was feeling. "Rehabilitation?"  
  
Cutwell seemed hesitant to speak on that subject. "If you feel comfortable talking about your situation I can send Dr. Fordham in to go over some things with you," she said. "Would you like me to?"  
  
"_Yes_!" Zell almost exploded. Cutwell nodded, and hurried off.  
  
_(...they think I'm insane.)_ Zell could almost have laughed at that--in fact, he almost did. He wondered for a moment if _they_ were the insane ones--what the _hell_ were they thinking, anyway? Who were these people?  
  
He paused on that last question, and went back to examine it more closely. Who _were_ these people--what had happened to the Desperados? What had happened, for that matter, to Siobhan and Tanker? Were they being held here, too?  
  
By the time Dr. Fordham came in, he was brimming with questions he didn't know whether or not to ask. However, the first words from Fordham's mouth ensured that he would get a chance to.  
  
"Ah, Zell Dincht," the man said. "I understand that you'll have a lot to talk about. You're one of the few criminal cases we have here."  
  
At that point, it seemed as if only the leather straps kept him from falling off the bed. "Criminal?" he asked.  
  
Fordham gestured tactlessly to the bonds. "Mr. Dincht, you're here because of the danger you represent to yourself and to civil society. We're not a law firm--we don't have anything to do with the Ministry of Justice--but we do have some sway in legal matters. You've been convicted of a federal crime, Mr. Dincht, but we have good evidence that points to the fact that you may not have been able to fully appreciate the consequences of your actions. If this is the case, then your rehabilitation in this facility will waive your responsibility to appear in a federal court."  
  
_(This is insane,)_ Zell thought--not immediately recognizing the irony of that phrasing. "What do they think I did?"  
  
Fordham produced a small remote from his jacket pocket, glancing upward. "One moment," he said, fiddling with the controls. Five of the lights above Zell switched off, dimming the light in the room to a more tolerable level. "Please look at the screen."  
  
Zell did as instructed, and was rewarded with the rotating image of the IDA.  
  
"Do you recognize this, Mr. Dincht?"  
  
Zell nodded. "Yeah," he said.  
  
"Please describe it for me. What it is, what it does...."  
  
"It's the... Interfaced Data Assembly. It fakes diagnostic readouts."  
  
Fordham hit a button, and the screen switched. "Tell me about the ship you see, her mission, and her crew," he said.  
  
Zell stared at the rotating image for a moment. "...looks like the _Harpoon_," he said. "...er, it was a submarine testing out some new engine. It was taken over by the Desperados, who were mutineers from the Esthar army. It was hiding out in South Side because they were outlaws."  
  
A picture of a generic man in a Marshal's uniform appeared on the screen. "Tell me about the organization this man represents."  
  
"He looks like he's from the Marshals," Zell identified. "They work in South Side as... cops for hire, I guess. They run a few ships like that _Kobayashi Maru_, too."  
  
The screen went blank. "Now, Mr. Dincht," the man said--a certain element of scolding in his voice. "Do you actually _believe_ everything you just told me?"  
  
_(Huh?)_ "It's the truth, isn't it?"  
  
The screen went back to the diagram of the IDA. "This," Fordham stated, "is an electromagnetic pulse disperser. It's used to scramble the electric functions in computerized systems--and, in some cases, if installed appropriately, it can lead to a fatal breakdown or an overload."  
  
The _Harpoon_ appeared.  
  
"This _ESF Harpoon_, crew of thirty-six, was a prototype vessel for the Fleet's new impulse cannon. Her crew was composed entirely of Desperados--the chosen name for the Estharan Marine Corps, Division 47. An engine malfunction caused her to put into South Side for repairs."  
  
The Marshal's image popped up.  
  
"The Marshals are the dominant faction in South Side. They hire out protection only in the sense that the inhabitants must pay them or face the consequences. The _Kobayashi Maru_ is a stolen commercial cruise ship, refitted to be a Marshal vessel--which they now use for running drugs, weapons, and whatever criminals can afford to pay."  
  
The screen went blank. Fordham frowned.  
  
"None of this information is classified or restricted in any way. If you wanted access to it, the farthest you would have to go would be an Estharan newspanel. Tell me, Mr. Dincht... where did you come across all of your flawed information?"  
  
Cutwell slipped in, moving up to Fordham and handing him something on a clipboard. Fordham glanced over it, nodded, and handed it back. Cutwell promptly left. Zell stared at the screen, three parts dumbfounded and one part extremely skeptical. "You've gotta be kidding me," he said. "This some kind of a joke?"  
  
Fordham shook his head. "I hope not, Mr. Dincht. If it is, then it's one of the worst jokes ever played. Over thirty-six Desperados were killed by your party in South Side--leading, in fact, to your tenure here. What we are trying to do here is determine guilt. At the moment, truthfully, you _are_ being held suspect--but we want to help you in any way we can. We don't believe that you had full knowledge of your actions or their effects. But to prove your innocence, we need you to cooperate with us--just answer our questions as carefully and as completely as you can. That's all we ask. Are you willing to help us get to the bottom of this?"  
  
Getting to the bottom of anything was pretty high up on Zell's priority list at the moment. However.... "How do I know I can trust you?"  
  
Fordham sighed. "That is the problem, isn't it?" he asked. "Really, there's nothing I can say that will solidly convince you that you should be able to. We're going to be asking you to re-examine a lot of things that you've accepted as true before this. I can see how easily this could be mistaken for conspiracy--especially by one with all the training you've gone through, the warnings you've heard, the learned paranoia you've had to accept. I suppose what I'm asking is for a leap of faith, Mr. Dincht. And, even if you can't immediately trust us, at least give us the benefit of the doubt long enough to hear what we have to say."  
  
That... seemed fair enough--for the moment, at least. "...okay," Zell conceded. Fordham nodded genially.  
  
"I'm glad you're willing to cooperate," he said. "This will all move along much faster, and I'll try to provide any information which might help you understand what's going on. Now, tell me--who informed you of the nature of the EMPD, the _Harpoon_, and the Marshals? You needn't say any names if you don't feel comfortable doing so."  
  
Zell nodded slowly. "...the people in my team told me," he said.  
  
"You weren't briefed?"  
  
"I... don't remember. Maybe."  
  
Fordham nodded sympathetically. "The medical report said something about that. It seems one of the Desperados managed to use a stun rod on you. The rod uses an intense paramagical burst to incapacitate the target until he or she can be secured or brought into custody. What probably happened in your case was that it reacted with the Guardian Force inside your mind, creating a wave which travelled through all of your junctioned paramagic. Paramagic is stored largely in the memory center of your brain, and when it was disrupted it had the effect of overriding some of your shorter-term memory. This effect isn't permanent; with a bit of work, we should be able to undo its effects. But... back to more immediate issues. Where did your teammates acquire their information?"  
  
"It... might have been in the briefing," Zell answered uncertainly. "And Ta--er, one of them knew about the area before."  
  
"Would you be willing to tell me who had prior information?"  
  
"...the team leader."  
  
"Is it possible that he or she could have given your team the information?"  
  
"I--it's _possible_, but so what? Why does it matter where I got it from?"  
  
"Do you trust your team leader?" Fordham answered in a roundabout sort of way.  
  
Zell was utterly taken aback. _(Tanker? Do I **trust** him?)_ "I--" _(He was... Tanker. I... I didn't **like** him, but... does this guy want me to think that he--)_ "I... don't know. I never thought about it. I... I didn't get along with him, but I don't think he _lied_ to me!"  
  
"Do you generally trust your fellow SeeDs, Mr. Dincht?"  
  
"Well... _yeah_! I mean--we're all working for the same thing, right? Wh--"  
  
Fordham held up a hand to forestall him. "Are you?" he asked. "How do you know you are?"  
  
Mentally, Zell was spluttering. It felt as if he had spent his entire life thinking that one plus one equalled three, and now he was in a math class and was trying to defend an answer he had gotten to a teacher who thought he was--well, _insane_. It was so blindingly obvious that he couldn't help that feeling if there was something very, _very_ wrong with Fordham then there had to be something very, _very_ wrong with himself. "It's--it's a mission," he tried to explain, "and in the mission there's one goal, and everyone tries to get to that goal! So we have to work together, or you can't get to the goal. ...what are you trying to _say_?"  
  
"I'm not trying to say anything," Fordham reassured him. "I just want you to think about this for a while. Mr. Dincht, how do you know in the mission that everyone _is_ working for the same goal? How would you be able to tell?"  
  
Yes--very, _very_ wrong indeed. "We all go to the same mission briefing," he said. "We all get told the same things. And then we _all_ do what we're supposed to!"  
  
"And nothing more, nothing less? Not ever?"  
  
Zell opened his mouth for a rejoinder, but paused. _(Nothing more... but that's different, isn't it?)_ He shook his head. "That's _different_. Sometimes the mission has to be changed--but the team is still a team, we don't just break up and run all over--"  
  
"But the mission _can_ be changed." Fordham nodded. "And, lacking all else, it would be the team leader's place to order those changes, would it not be?"  
  
"But--but this one _wasn't_ changed," Zell argued.  
  
"How do you know? Your memory--"  
  
"Because Tanker wouldn't--'cause Siobhan would object--" he had gotten halfway through two different sentences before he realized both that he had named each of his teammates out loud and that he didn't honestly have a leg to stand on. "...it doesn't _feel_ right," he finished lamely.  
  
"I can see this is agitating you," Fordham stated, "and I'm very sorry. But I can see that you're thinking about this--I can tell that some of the same questions we raised are being raised in your mind as well. We _will_ get to the bottom of all this, Mr. Dincht--don't worry. But now, let me change the subject."  
  
A change of subject seemed like a welcome direction for the conversation to take. Zell nodded mutely.  
  
"Have you ever heard of the Blue Dragon Scandals?"  
  
Zell shook his head. "...no."  
  
"The Blue Dragons are northeastern Galbadian mercenaries," Fordham informed him. "They mostly do monster-hunting and guard work--low-key jobs that no one really objects to. They generally work in pairs--commander and subordinate--and are regulated by mission overseers who don't go out on the mission but analyze the mission reports and inform the commander of what to do. These overseers were traditionally the only ones the clients spoke to. Now, the Scandals were a series of thefts--the mission overseer would contact the commander and inform him that the client needed them to retrieve some stolen artifact or document, and that the client would pick it up from the overseer's office. The team would do as instructed, and the overseer would sell the stolen goods. Only in one out of six cases was the commander aware of this and cooperating. The subordinate was never informed, never aware."  
  
Zell got a bad feeling as to where this subject was heading. "So, what you're saying is--"  
  
"Nothing except that corruption can exist within even the most innocuous agencies. It can, in fact, exist right in front of one, one can live with it day by day and never know about it."  
  
"That could never happen in SeeD," Zell said uneasily.  
  
"Oh? Why not?"  
  
"It--it's _SeeD_. They're good people. I _know_ them--"  
  
"All?"  
  
There was a heavy silence.  
  
"Mr. Dincht," Fordham said in a matter that was not at all unkindly. "Why did you join SeeD?"  
  
Zell gave a low chuckle, and looked down at his hands. Somewhere in that exchange they had balled into fists, and he wasn't quite sure how to unclench them. "I wanted to be like my grandfather," he said. "He was a solider."  
  
"Why didn't you join a standard army?"  
  
"...'cause I live in _Balamb_," Zell said, and had to resist the urge to laugh.  
  
"I see," Fordham said. "So SeeD was... another option, then?"  
  
"Yeah. I... I guess so."  
  
"Who do you live with, Zell? Or... who did you, before you joined SeeD?"  
  
"I lived with Ma," he said shakily. "Pop was... he was never around. He mostly lives in Kipling, out by Deling City. For business."  
  
"What did your mother say when you told her that you wanted to join SeeD?"  
  
"Ma? Ma's... cool about almost everything. She said--said she was a bit worried, and she didn't know if being a mercenary was the right choice--but she seemed okay with it, mostly. ...mostly okay."  
  
"I would like you to tell me about life in Garden. Tell me about your friends, your social life, your treatment... anything memorable about the people in SeeD."  
  
"I... don't remember too much. GFs, an' all. But--"  
  
Fordham waited patiently. "Go on."  
  
"--I remember... didn't have _too_ many friends. I commuted a lot, so I didn't really live there. Got along pretty well except for--" he froze up.  
  
"Except for... what?"  
  
"...hell, _everyplace_ has bullies," Zell countered the accusation Fordham hadn't made. "An'--we were just stupid _kids_. It doesn't mean anything!"  
  
"How long did this bullying persist?" Fordham's voice was gentle and unyielding--like one of those psychologists you saw in movies who always thought that everything was a displacement of something or other from childhood trauma. Zell had to fight through a vertiginous sense of irrational panic before he could even think about answering.  
  
_(How long? It... it went on until Seifer ran off--until I wasn't around him any more--but I can't say that, Fordham will think that--ulp.)_ "It wasn't that bad," he said as forcefully as he could. "He called me a few names. We got into a few fights. It was stupid kid stuff. Didn't really matter."  
  
"Tell me... about your friends. Don't feel any pressure to mention names if you don't want to."  
  
"Th-they're cool. We stick together mostly. Help each other out."  
  
"Do you trust them?"  
  
"...yeah. Of course."  
  
"How did they see you? How did they treat you?"  
  
"What?" Zell blinked. _(How did they....)_ "They're my _friends_." _(What is he **asking**?)_ "They act like friends."  
  
"Tell me more," Fordham insisted.  
  
"Uh--" He had to stop on that one. "More? They're like...."  
  
_(Like what?)_  
  
There was Squall, of course. Squall didn't really treat anyone like a friend, but he was Squall, and you had to get used to that. Didn't mean nothin'. And Irvine--Irvine just _acted_ like that. It was an image. He was trying to get girls. They didn't get along _that_ well, but Irvine was always trying to impress someone--and there was Quistis. Quistis was always so preoccupied--or she seemed like it--but she really did _care_, you could see it in her eyes, she just didn't always know what to _do_--and there was Selphie, and Selphie was just Selphie, she was a law unto herself, she seemed to like everyone in a sort of general Selphie-ish way that encompassed him as well because there was no reason for it not to and Rinoa was usually too busy trying to get Squall to open up or do something against his will to really interact with everyone else but she _had_ stood up to Squall for him a couple of times and whether that was to get a bit further under his skin or what he didn't quite know but they were his _friends_, dammit, and Fordham didn't know how they had been through thick and thin together and--  
  
"They saved my life," he said weakly. "They look out for me. Maybe we're not the closest friends ever, but why do we have to be?" He was shaking, and he didn't know why or how to stop. "They're still my friends."  
  
Fordham reached out and put a hand on Zell's shoulder, an oddly comforting gesture. "I'm sorry if this is making you upset," he said.  
  
Zell didn't know how to respond.  
  
"I would like you to tell me something," Fordham said. "Do you think you can?"  
  
_(No.)_ "S-sure. What is it?"  
  
"Have you ever regretted joining SeeD?"  
  
The question got in under his skin, grabbing him and freezing him up like a Stop spell. _(Regretted?)_ The question was a confusing one. "I don't know," he answered truthfully. "I--sometimes I don't quite know why I joined it, ya know? Sometimes it doesn't feel quite right, I guess. But... but it's what I know. It's where all my friends are. It's... it's who I am."  
  
"But it doesn't feel... right."  
  
"Sometimes." _(This isn't fair this isn't right why is he **asking** me this I don't know I don't like this I want to get **out** of here--)_  
  
"Tell me about that."  
  
"It--it just doesn't seem to _fit_. Sometimes I dunno what I'm doing there, or I wonder what I would be doing if I wasn't--sometimes I run into people my age who aren't in SeeD, and they're so weird--and then I think that they're probably normal, and I'm the weird one--sometimes I just don't want to fight any more. But it's my life, and I chose it, so I guess--" _(What?)_ "--I guess that makes it what I want. Doesn't it?"  
  
"It sounds as if you feel trapped," Fordham observed.  
  
"Sometimes. _Not_ all the time. And it's... it's just my first year. I probably just have the jitters. Or... or something."  
  
"Do you think your uneasiness could have something to do with the _nature_ of SeeD? Does the problem necessarily have to be inside you?"  
  
"I--I don't _know_."  
  
"Mr. Dincht," Fordham said, an edge of gravity to his kindly voice. "It's the opinion of the staff here that you are, essentially, an honest person--that you're experiencing a kind of mental schism between your own feelings and your loyalties to SeeD. In response to this, you may have suppressed some of your feelings--feelings which we are going to help you to sort out."  
  
"...oh?" It was a lame response, and he knew it. But he didn't know what to say--didn't know what he _could_ say.  
  
"I would like to show you something," Fordham declared. "Something that may shed some light on your feelings. Please, direct your attention to the screen."  
  
Zell did so, not sure what he should expect.  
  
And Fordham switched off the lights, and lead him straight down into hell.


	6. Revelations

**_Layer 004:  
Revelations_**  
  
_(Blood.)_  
  
Blood was the one identifiable thing on the screen, and it was _everywhere_. It coated the floor, spattered the walls, and congealed in small, grim pools wherever it had a chance to. It formed a gruesome inkblot test amidst the detrius, dotted on rocks and weapons and things Zell didn't even want to guess at. He wanted to flinch away, but couldn't seem to make himself.  
  
"This picture," Fordham explained, unmoved, "was taken during the excavation of the ruined D-District-A Galbadian missile base--whose destruction, you are no doubt aware, was recognized by most political commentaries as 'a provoked independent action taken by members of SeeD against a threatening agency.' Provoked but unordered, Mr. Dincht. A countdown to self-destruct was initiated, but there were significant numbers of wounded in the lower parts of the base and a number of mechanical failures prevented escape. Sixty-nine people were never accounted for--the nature of their deaths made it... difficult to count remains."  
  
_(They wanted to blow up Garden. What were we supposed to--)_  
  
"Self-defense, Mr. Dincht, is one thing, and gruesome enough in its own regard. Perhaps it is justifiable, perhaps not. Violence in response to violence is a questionably morality, at best. But let's move on."  
  
Zell was almost certain he didn't _want_ to.  
  
The next picture up was a split-screen between two photographs--one, a row of people in a hospital, bandaged or in casts. The other, a city street--Deling City, from the looks of it, neon lights and street lamps combining to give it an eerie glow. It was night--a clear night that made it exceptionally easy to see the bodies.  
  
At least these were recognizable as bodies.  
  
"This is what a riot looks like, Mr. Dincht," Fordham explained cooly. "Specifically, the Deling City riot incited by Sorceress Edea's attempted assassination--"  
  
"That wasn't our _fault,_" Zell protested.  
  
Fordham pursed his lips. "But you were party to it," he said. "The first thing you have to do in order to solve a problem is to admit that you have it, Mr. Din--"  
  
"You mean admit I _am_ it?" He spat the words out. They left a bitter taste in his mouth anyway.  
  
Fordham looked at him--that cool, impossibly disconcerting stare. "Do you believe that?" he asked.  
  
After a moment, when it became obvious that no answer was forthcoming, he went on.  
  
"It was quite a spectacular fight," he said, cueing the pictures forward, allowing each one only enough time to sink into Zell's mind. A mother holding a young child, each one riddled with bullets. A soldier with his faceplate smashed in, jagged edges of plastic digging into his cheeks, his lips, his eyes. A man with a briefcase, head back at an unnatural angle, collarbone protruding from ripped flesh--  
  
He tried to look away, but his eyes weren't obeying his commands. "Stop it," he requested, simply.  
  
Fordham looked at him again. "It's important to face the truth of what you've done," he said.  
  
_(What I'VE--)_  
  
Cutwell appeared in his peripheral vision, bearing a small syringe. There was a sudden sharp pain in the side of his neck as something was injected, and Cutwell quietly left again.  
  
"Mr. Dincht," Fordham said carefully. "I want you to look up."  
  
Zell did, thankful for any chance to look away from the horrors on the screen. The lights seemed to have gotten brighter while he wasn't watching.  
  
"I want you to count the lights for me," Fordham said.  
  
_(Didn't I already--)_ "Seven."  
  
Fordham pursed his lips. "There are seven lights in the outer ring, that's correct. But you're forgetting the smaller one in the middle. There are eight lights, Mr. Dincht."  
  
_(What the?)_ He looked again. His vision blurred. "But it--it _looks_ like seven."  
  
Fordham sighed. "This is to be expected," he said. "Don't worry. It will all come to you in time. Look back at the screen."  
  
He was still staring at the lights. They blurred, all seeming to run together-- "Maybe there's just one," he said. "It kinda looks like there's only one."  
  
"The screen." Fordham's voice was strong, insistent. Zell looked back at the screen.  
  
"I don't wanna see this," he protested.  
  
Fordham was implacable. "It's important that you do."  
  
"Why?" _(It's sick... this is sick!)_  
  
"Because it's important that you begin to realize the weight of what's going on here," Fordham answered. "It's important that you begin to see people as _people_--not as enemies."  
  
The man on the screen was another Galbadian soldier, lying mangled and mutilated against a gutter. The picture was of high enough quality to see the fuzz of blonde hair on his chin, and the thin silver chain around his neck.  
  
"It's important," Fordham continued, moving to another picture, "to understand who they are--that any given person might be a living person's husband--" _a picture of an Estharan scientist, crushed under the weight of crumbled Crystal Pillar_ "--mother--" _a woman in a dress, thrown back against a Timber wall, slouched and broken_ "--child--" _a boy in a Trabia Garden cadet's uniform, only recognizable where the flesh and cloth hadn't burnt_ "--or friend." _A body--most of one--being fished out of an Esthar bay, swollen, grotesque...._  
  
Fordham switched the picture, one last time._  
  
(But that's--)_  
  
"Identify this scene," Fordham said.  
  
The scene was grainy, low-quality as if it had been plucked from a security camera that hadn't been upgraded since its building was established. However, it was clear enough to identify the outskirts of South Side--and what was going on.  
  
"That's me," Zell said, more to himself than anyone else. "And that's--"  
  
"Jeshua Drake," Fordham identified. "Your mission's contingency officer. Tell me, Mr. Dincht. What happened on the first day of your visit to South Side?"  
  
"I don't _remember_," he protested. "You _know_ that! Why do you keep _asking_ me all this?!" He felt uneasy, slightly sick. Something tugged at the edge of his mind, serving only to stoke his uneasiness.  
  
"You'll allow me to refresh your memory."  
  
Fordham hit a button on the controller, setting the picture moving.  
  
It was a nondescript room, file cabinets and metal shelves and equipment lockers placed neatly in rows. He and Drake slipped in like graceless shadows, stealing from spot to spot and utterly unaware of the camera watching them from above. They scanned over the shelves quickly, Drake pulled out a set of lockpicks and opened one cabinet after another, gesturing. Some words were exchanged, but the camera didn't have any audio receptors to pick them up.  
  
At last, in the farthest row of lockers from the door Drake seemed to find what he was looking for, and--triumphantly--lifted the IDA out of its place. He turned to the door, and hesitated.  
  
Zell began to get uneasy. It was as if he knew what was about to happen, but didn't _really_--it was as if he knew they were--had been?--in danger, but couldn't for the life of him remember _why_.  
  
He watched himself hiss something to Drake, and dive under a row of shelves attacked to the wall. It was a lame hiding place, and it showed--but it was better than Drakes options: effectively none.  
  
Three Desperados, in combat torso armor and wielding automatic weapons, came marching in the door the next moment.  
  
There was a moment of surprised pause, and then their weapons were trained on Drake. One of them said something--even without sound, Zell could tell it was _"Surrender!"_  
  
Drake put down the IDA--slowly, carefully. Zell could see himself--a faint blur under the shelves, a shadow inside a shadow--crawling painstakingly toward the door and where the Desperados stood. Instinctively, he knew/remembered that there would be no way to launch an effective attack--he was on his hands and knees, and there wasn't enough room to lunge from underneath the shelves. He would probably be shot or taken hostage as he crawled his way out from under them--whatever he was going to do, it was probably going to be something very stupid.  
  
He reached the end of the shelf just as Drake straightened up, IDA on the ground in front of him. There was a tense moment.  
  
It took him three beats after the first soldier hit the ground before he knew what had happened.  
  
His hands darted back under the shelf as the remaining Desperados turned, trying to see him so that they could fire. He reached out once more, quickly, grabbing the fallen man's collar to bring him quickly in so that his head rammed into the leg of the lower shelf, knocking him senseless and probably breaking his nose. Now that he looked, it seemed his left ankle--the one closest to the shelf--was bent unnaturally--he had probably broken it as an opening move.  
  
The two others backed away, circling around to fire at him without their comrade getting in the way. He pushed the man's body away and scurried out from under the shelves, pulling the felled man up with him as he stood as quickly as he could. The man was physically larger than Zell was, and it looked to be a struggle, but before the Desperados could counter it he had backed himself into a place where he could effectively use the unconscious one as a human shield.  
  
Drake had managed to squeeze between a pair of lockers, and wasn't looking too much as if he would join in the fray. It could have been a standoff there, if the desperados hadn't moved. Or they could have radioed for backup, which would have forced Zell's hand. But, for whatever reason, they made the mistake that was to cost them dearly.  
  
One of them approached, the one behind keeping his weapon to bear in case of any opportunity. Like a snake, the closer man's hand shot out, grabbing his comrade in an attempt to wrest him away from Zell.  
  
Zell shoved, pushing the man offbalance and causing him to fall with the third soldier on top of him. The one soldier left standing stepped in closer, and Zell got a foot up into his stomach--  
  
_(Wait. Why didn't he fire?)_  
  
He kicked again, knocking the gun out of his hands. Behind him, the Desperado he had pushed was getting to his feet, a rod in hand. It had apparently been clipped to his belt--he hadn't noticed it before. Zell spun, but wasn't quick enough to dodge or deflect the first swing--it scored a glancing hit to his temple, and he reeled. A second swing hit him squarely across the back of the neck, and he went down.  
  
The Desperados went to their work quickly, Drake forgotten. One produced a thin cord from his belt pack, looping it several times around Zell's ankles before going in to tie it. The other went to put the rod weapon back, fumbling the latch with his gloved hands. Zell stirred--  
  
And then the scene burst back into his memory, clouded and faint, but _certain_.  
  
He could _remember_ as he kicked out--remember the hazy, dreamlike quality to it all, remember the way he floated just on the edge of sense and consciousness. He could _remember_ as he twisted, not sure whether to punch or grapple--he could _remember_ as, more by chance that design, his fingers closed around the Desperado's throat and clenched so hard and so _fast_ that the skin split, leaving nothing but a bloody trail and a crushed windpipe.  
  
By all rights, he should have died then. The remaining Desperado should have shot him there, and that should have been the end of it. Instead, grappling with the rod latch, he went in to kick Zell in the head, to knock him out again. It was going to be his last tactical mistake.  
  
Zell caught his foot, twisting and pulling. Something snapped--the man opened his mouth in an exclamation of pain as he tumbled, hitting the ground awkwardly and probably bruising one shoulder. Zell rolled back to his hands and knees, lunging for the Desperado's throat--and, with a ferocious twist, snapped his neck.  
  
The blood from his first kill was pooling by his side, and the second Desperado's neck was discoloring. Zell was pulling himself up with the aid of the shelves when Fordham stopped the picture. All he was aware of, however, was how those two neck kills had _sounded_--the ripping sound of flesh and muscle tearing, the wet-clay noise of breaking bone.  
  
Three armed to one unarmed, and he had killed two and taken one out of commission. _Killed_ them. And been very, very good at it.  
  
It felt as if someone had stepped on his grave.  
  
It felt like more than that--it felt as if someone had done a full Balamb Reel on his grave, punching in his stomach for the grand finale. It felt like he was being judged and condemned and laughed at and threatened all at the same time, as if he had been reduced to the image on the screen, nothing more, nothing less, just _moving_ and _fighting _and _killing_....  
  
"No," he said, dizzily.  
  
"I know you don't want to accept it," Fordham said. "I wish you didn't have to. But only by accepting it can you move past it."  
  
"No," Zell said again. "No; it's impossible, I--"  
  
Fordham frowned. "Denial won't do you any good," he said sternly. "You know what you just saw. You were a mercenary, Mr. Dincht. Can you honestly say it was outside your capacity?"  
  
Zell shook his head in protest, stricken momentarily dumb. He had no words to say, and no breath with which to say them.  
  
_(Impossible....)_  
  
"He won't accept it," Cutwell said. When had she come back? "We'll have to try something else."  
  
"Nonsense." Fordham looked over. "It's--"  
  
"I wouldn't _do_ that," Zell protested--_begged_. "I _couldn't_. I wouldn't."  
  
"You followed orders, Mr. Dincht," Fordham said. "You wanted to be a good SeeD. You followed orders very well. Isn't that right?"  
  
"_NO!"_ He jerked--he wanted to be out of there, to fight, to get himself away--  
  
--to _fight_. Like he had just seen himself--  
  
_(No no no **no** **NO**)_  
  
He jerked, twisted, shook the bed. He was trapped--_trapped_, and panicking, like a rookie, like an _idiot_--  
  
"Let me go," he growled. "Or I'll--I'll--"  
  
"That's not going to help, Zell," Fordham said. "Be reasonable, now. Calm down. You'll only hurt yourself."  
  
"Why are you _doing _this to me?" He might have howled. A feral howl like a wild beast. He didn't know.  
  
"You're a danger to yourself and others," Cutwell said matter-of-factly.  
  
Fordham sighed. "Mr. Dincht, you've trapped yourself. You've trapped yourself in a life you don't really want and can't deal with, and now you're beginning to realize it. We're here to help you."  
  
His face was burning, and he could feel tears on it as well. Hot tears, tears like scalding water burning their way inside of him.  
  
"We're here to help you get better. Don't worry. _Everything is going to be okay._"  
  
He choked--heaved and choked on his own bile. Someone placed a hand on his forehead, another blazing pressure. Cutwell swore.  
  
"Hyne, Doc," Fordham was holding both of his hands, now, a pressure that should have been comforting but wasn't. "What did you do to him? Five CC's, not twenty."  
  
"Sorry, sir," Cutwell said, sounding slightly pained.  
  
Fordham let of of his hands, now he was working at the buckles at his ankles. "_You're going to ruin everything._" It sounded like he said that, but Zell couldn't be sure. Maybe he hadn't. All he was sure of was the feverish nausea that filled him, from his heart to the pit of his stomach.  
  
He gagged.  
  
"Help me," _(aaugh)_ "_Help_ me! Get these straps undone!" (_That was Fordham, right? Fordham--)_  
  
"I don't know," (_Cutwell)_ "this may have gone too far--"  
  
The world was turning the most fascinating array of splotchy greens. "I feel sick," he had a blurred impression of saying.  
  
He was falling--_half _of him was falling. The other half was still strapped down, but the straps were coming off. He didn't want them to, he felt as though he was falling apart, bit by bit plummeting into some dark pit from which there was no return, no hope, just an all-consuming dark--the straps were what kept him to the solid world, and now they were disappearing one by one--  
  
"Shit, shit, _shit_! Another strap disappeared. "Hang on."  
  
"Come on, Doc," Fordham urged. "Pull him through. You're going to be fine, Dincht, you--"  
  
"No." He slurred the word, he _knew_ he did, but he couldn't hear himself do it. He was reeling, attached to reality by one wrist and not wanting to let go. "No, I feel really, _really_ sick--"  
  
He fell.  
  
He hit the ground, hands on his shoulders and back steadying him as his own palms bruised themselves against the floor. He shook, heaved--and consigned the meagre contents of his stomach to one violent expulsion. Gasped, heaved--and fell.  
  
This time, he knew not where he landed.  
  
-  
  
He didn't want to wake up, but he did anyway.  
  
He woke up feeling not quite as sick as he had, but decidedly under the weather in any case. His head was swimming, his stomach was queazing, and his vision was blurring--but he didn't feel as if he was going to die any second, which was a marked improvement.  
  
...he wasn't in the same room he had been in.  
  
He blinked upon realizing that. He was on a low bed--comfortable, and surprisingly so--with cords attached to his wrists and ankles that allowed him some range of motion, but not much. A thick sheet was tucked in around him, augmenting an overstuffed pillow. This room was small--the size of a bedroom, at most. There was a small chest of drawers against one wall, and a door across from him. Next to the door was a chair--in which sat someone he almost, but not quite, recognized.  
  
He was sandy-haired and freckled, with a build that might have been lanky had he been taller. A pair of glasses were perched on his nose, and he occasionally had to push them back up as they fell. He was a mousy man--someone who looked like he had all nervous energy and no real bite.  
  
"...Drake?"  
  
Drake jumped. He looked up sharply, and steadied himself on the chair arm. "...Zell," he chuckled nervously. "Make some noise next time, or you're going to _kill_ me...."  
  
Zell blinked. "Wh--"  
  
Drake motioned him to be quiet, and stood up. Crossing the room, he stood at the side of Zell's bed. "Don't worry about it," he said. "Fordham just said you might like to see me. That's all."  
  
"You know Fordham?"  
  
Drake nodded, an odd little smile on his face. "Yeah. Yeah, you could say that."  
  
"So you--did they show you all that stuff? The slides, and the video--"  
  
Drake's expression immediately became pained. "No," he said, voice getting the slightest bit husky. "And you'll never know how sorry I am that you had to go through that. But--"  
  
"I saw myself on that mission. I don't want to be that."  
  
"Of course not. Zell, you--"  
  
"I killed those people. I don't even know how many people I killed, and it was just one mission. How many people did I kill, Drake?"  
  
"Zell--"  
  
Something scratched at the back of Zell's mind. "How--that mission. What happened? ...how did _you_ get _here_?"  
  
Drake caught his breath. There was an uncomfortable pause.  
  
"I... I set you up," Drake said, sounding _hurt_, of all things. "I set you up to be captured, and to be brought here. But Zell--" he knelt at the side of the bed, eyes earnest. "You would never have come if I asked you, and--you're a good guy, Zell, and I didn't want to see you slaving away for SeeD for the rest of your life. I wanted to help you get better, just like I did. I'm sorry I had to do it like this. I know you might not want to trust me any more--"  
  
"No," Zell said--surprised himself by saying. "'s'ok. I just feel so _sick_...."  
  
"But that's what we did, Zell. That's what we were. SeeDs. Mercenaries. We killed people for money, and now that we can see that--" He shuddered, gripping the edge of the bed. "I think it's good to get a little sick, thinking about that."  
  
Zell pulled back, tucking his chin under the covers. "I want to get out of here," he whispered sullenly.  
  
"You will," Drake assured. "Don't worry. They'll release you soon, and you can go and do anything you want. You can have a new life, Zell."  
  
Zell watched him, watched the odd little caring half-smile on his face and wondered about the possibilities. "What do you do?" he asked.  
  
"I still work for SeeD," Drake said. "I go on the missions, and set people up like I did for you. I try to help them."  
  
"Isn't that dangerous? If SeeD finds out, they'll--"  
  
"They won't be too happy, no." Drake shrugged. "I want to help people, Zell, and I have to take some risks to do it. But I want to help them badly enough that I'm willing to risk getting hurt to do it. You ever felt that way before?"  
  
"...yeah," Zell said, thinking back.  
  
"...it's wrong," Drake said. "You see that, don't you? It's wrong. Somewhere along the line, someone had to think that this was okay--that you could do things like this, that you could pay for people's lives. And someone had to think that it was all right to take that pay--that some Gil in the pocket was more important than a living, breathing person." He breathed unsteadily. "Everyone in SeeD thinks that 'cause that was what they were taught to think. It's not their fault--it wasn't your fault, Zell, but everybody is so damn _corrupted_--so _corrupted_ and _evil_--"  
  
There was an uneasy moment.  
  
Zell's hand shot out, seizing Drake's wrist before it got to the end of the cord. "What happened to Siobhan and Tanker?" he demanded. "Where are they?"  
  
"Back at Garden," Drake said. "Two or more years of active duty and you really do buy into the whole SeeD thing. The Ward hasn't had much luck reforming people after that amount of time."  
  
"So you're just gonna give up on them?"  
  
"Zell--" Drake bit his lip. "I don't know too much about these things. I just bring people in, Fordham and Cutwell and the others take care of them. But we want to focus on the ones we know we can get through to--people like you. The Ministry of Charity only gives the Ward so much money. They can't stretch it forever, and rehabilitating veteran SeeDs is just too hard. Think about it. If you had to choose between bringing around five rookies or one vet, what would you do?"  
  
Zell hesitated, and released Drake's wrist. "I... guess you're right," he said.  
  
There was a long pause.  
  
"I'm glad I was a rookie," he said, curling up under the sheets.  
  
Drake smiled wanly. "So are we, Zell," he answered, patting the pack of his hand. "So are we."  
  
-  
  
Fordham came in some hours later--well after Drake had left--clipboard in hand. "How do you feel, Zell?" he asked, a warm smile on his face. "...it is all right if I call you 'Zell,' isn't it?"  
  
Zell stared up at him, uneasy. "S--sure."  
  
"I'd like to apologize for today," Fordham said, smile thinning. "It's not a pleasant thing. No one here enjoys it. But sometimes, you just have to face the truth all at once and then deal with it. You can't get past it by being squeamish about it. That's no better than trying to run from it, and nothing gets better if you run from things."  
  
Zell had nothing to say to that.  
  
"Drake told me about your conversation," he said. "Do you understand what he said?"  
  
Zell nodded mutely.  
  
"That's good." Fordham nodded. "He's a smart kid. Passionate, too. He knows what he's doing, and why he's doing it. It's one of many admirable qualities about him."  
  
_(I don't know what I'm doing.)_ The thought came to Zell completely unbidden. _(Or why....)_  
  
"You're an extraordinary person, Zell," Fordham said. "It's amazing how much you've been able to absorb and accept today. You should be proud of yourself."  
  
Zell glanced away. "...yeah," he said, more for the sake of agreeing than _because_ he agreed.  
  
Fordham was in the process of checking something on his clipboard when the door opened, and Cutwell came in bearing a small paper cup. Fordham glanced up, and took it from her. "Is this the sleeping draught?" he asked.  
  
Cutwell nodded. "His body is exhausted. He needs sleep, and a good meal when he wakes up."  
  
Zell blinked. He hadn't noticed until then how hungry he was.  
  
Fordham nodded, and Cutwell turned and left. Fordham handed Zell the cup. "Cutwell isn't the most sociable of people," he said, "but she's a good doctor. I'm inclined to trust her, if she says you should sleep now."  
  
Zell looked at the cup dubiously, and pulled himself up just enough that he could down it. He made a face--it was remarkably bitter. Fordham took the empty cup back from him, depositing it in a wastebasket somewhere off to the side.  
  
"I feel sick," he said.  
  
"I know. That's a natural response. Once you've had a good sleep, though, you should start feeling better."  
  
"I think I might have nightmares."  
  
"Not real ones." Fordham made another note on his clipboard. "You know what a nightmare really is, Zell?"  
  
Zell shook his head. "No." _(Not really. I really don't.)_  
  
"A nightmare is waking up one morning and finding out that you can't live with anything you were, any way you've acted, anything you've done. We've all been there before. That's why we're here."  
  
Zell stared. "You were?"  
  
"I was in the army," Fordham said. "Esthar Foot Corps. I served under Adel. That would be... oh, almost twenty years ago, wouldn't it?" Fordham gave Zell a reassuring smile. "I know what it feels like," he said. "I remember the day that I really opened my eyes and looked at the newscasts, paid attention to what every other nation in the world was saying. I remember how utterly _sick_ I felt. That's why I joined this institution, Zell. I wanted to make a difference in the world--to stop other people from making the same mistake, living the same nightmare. That's why I understand what you're going through. That's why I want you to trust me."  
  
Zell pondered that for a moment. "It's hard to believe," he said.  
  
"I know. It always is. But once you're confronted with the facts like this--"  
  
"I believe you."  
  
Fordham smiled, and opened his mouth to respond.  
  
"--I trust you," Zell added, before he got the chance.  
  
"Thank you, Zell." Fordham's smile became even more sincere. "That means a lot."  
  
"I want to get out of here."  
  
Fordham nodded. "You've made a remarkable recovery," he said. "You really are an extraordinary case."  
  
"So I can leave?"  
  
"Not yet." Fordham made a note on his clipboard. "Tomorrow, maybe. We'll see how you feel tomorrow."  
  
Zell looked away.  
  
Fordham reached out to the wall, flipping a small switch. The light in the room got a bit brighter. "Zell, I would like you to do something for me."  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Look up for a moment."  
  
Zell looked up, squinting into the light fixture. "Uh huh?"  
  
"I would like you to count those lights for me. How many do you see?"  
  
"Don't need to count 'em," he responded fuzzily.  
  
"That's very good, Zell. How many are there?"  
  
"Eight," Zell said. "Seven on the outside, and one in the middle."  
  
Fordham smiled, noting something down on his clipboard. "You're a good kid, Zell," he said.  
  
"Fordham?"  
  
Fordham looked over. "Yes?"  
  
"What if I'm not really a good kid? What if all I can really do _is_ kill people?"  
  
Fordham looked troubled. "I don't believe that," he said. "Not for a second. Do you?"  
  
"I dunno." Zell blinked, feeling the effects of Cutwell's sleeping potion. "I dunno what else I would do. I _like_ getting into fights, I think. Doesn't that make me a bad person?"  
  
"There are a lot of ways to handle aggression," Fordham said. "Fighting is only one of them. Do you like running, or any sports?"  
  
"Yeah," he said. "I guess so."  
  
"Channel your energy into those things instead of fighting," Fordham suggested. "You'll probably find that you don't really like fighting after all. You don't like killing, do you?"  
  
"No," Zell responded. "I hate it. It's sick."  
  
"There, you see?" Fordham patted him on the shoulder. "I _do_ think that you're a good person, Zell. You've proved it to me. Just prove it to yourself."  
  
Zell muttered a sleepy affirmation.  
  
"Get a good night's sleep, Zell," Fordham advised. "You have a new life ahead of you tomorrow."  
  
Mind still on the horrors of the day--and of many days past--he closed his eyes. "'night," he muttered groggily.  
  
"Pleasant dreams," Fordham wished him as he closed the door.  
  
_(But I **do** like fighting,)_ Zell thought, disgruntled--angry at SeeD, angry at the world, angry with himself. _(More than I like running. I just... don't know what to do....)_  
  
Before he knew it, he had drifted off.


	7. REM Nightmares

**_Layer ???:  
REM Nightmares_**  
  
Every one of us has nightmares, the counselor was saying, tapping a metal pointer against his thigh. Being mercenaries, you will of course have nightmares of a different and more potent sort than the average person. Now, there is a considerable amount of speculation as to what nightmares are, how they originate, what they mean... all of this is inconsequential. Over the next few days, my job is to teach you methods of coping and controlling your nightmares so that they need not run the risk of encroaching upon your personal or professional lives."  
  
Zell wasn't listening.  
  
He had had enough of this--this twining on about the same subjects, the same useless words. Did this man think that one short lecture would pass, and everything was going to be fine forever and ever? It was ridiculous, and he was getting _angry_.  
  
This time, he decided to say it.  
  
"It's stupid," he said.  
  
The counselor stopped talking immediately, fixing Zell with a baleful glare. "Oh, Mr. Dincht?" he asked.  
  
"You're gonna tell us all this GF _crap_ to do so we don't have nightmares any more," Zell accused. "It's fucking _stupid_. You don't even know what nightmares _are_."  
  
The counselor glared. The room was staring at Zell as he rose from his chair, planting both fists on the desks in a tacit challenge. "Well, Mr. Dincht," the counselor said. "Why don't you enlighten us out of your _extensive_ knowledge."  
  
"You don't _ignore_ them," Zell snarled. "Nightmares aren't things that you can just forget about. Sometimes they mean something. You don't _ignore_ them."  
  
"They don't mean anything," the counselor argued back.  
  
Zell raised a fist, and a hand closed around it. "Zell," Siobhan warned.  
  
The back of his head hurt, and the stuffy heat of South Side was only making it worse. "What?"  
  
"Don't you trust us?" Siobhan's face was earnest. "_Trust_ us."  
  
It was hard to think. "I--"  
  
_(We can deal with our big, bad dreams.)_  
  
"I don't think so."  
  
"Listen to your team leader, rookie," Tanker sneered.  
  
Throwing a punch felt like the best thing that he had ever done. Force. Momentum. Control--  
  
His fist plowed through the faceplate and into the soft skin beyond, shutting the man off like a switch before he had a chance to get any shots off. His gun clattered to the ground, unused. One down.  
  
One more down.  
  
"The thing about SeeDs," Drake was saying, smiling in that half-smiling way he had, green eyes glistening, "is that they're easy to understand. Once you figure them out, it's all clockwork. Orders, choice, money, pleasure, it doesn't matter what they're doing it for in the end. It's all the same, really."  
  
_(At least I didn't join SeeD to kill for fun. But if it's all the same in the end, then--)_  
  
You'd think from all the novels and all the movies that you would _know_ if any given someone could kill, that there would be an aura of danger about them, an edge to their eyes, but that wasn't the case--Quistis Trepe, SeeD at age fifteen; Selphie Tilmitt, cherubic emblem of gleeful destruction; Zell Dincht, who everyone in Balamb thought was such a _nice_ kid and the list went on and on and on....  
  
This wasn't _right_.  
  
...it _wasn't right_.  
  
It wasn't even a _secret_. SeeD was Garden's elite mercenary force--the youngest such force in the world. And he was a member of said force.  
  
SeeD, the most dangerous independent organization in the world.  
  
The most _dangerous_.  
  
"A nightmare," continued the counselor unmercifully, "can produce an extremely strong effect upon the body. Unlike imagination--what some would term its closest relative--a nightmare can raise levels of adrenaline, increase heart rate and blood pressure, induce sweating--indeed, these are all fairly common occurrences. In fact, nightmares have been known to be such powerful physical cues that--"  
  
He felt as if he wanted to vomit. He shook, sweat beading and rolling down his skin. He wanted to hit something--as if the violence was a drug, one he needed to make sense of the world. He needed to be able to take one punch, feel the adrenaline, the motion and the power--he needed to figure where to plant every step, how to bend, when to swing--he needed something that he could understand, or he was going to--  
  
Suddenly the straps on his wrists seemed like a comfort more than an annoyance. At least they kept him from falling apart.  
  
"You can't run from them," he spat into the counselor's face. "Sooner or later you have to own up to them. Get it?"  
  
The man was flustered now. Zell had him on the defensive, and was pressing his advantage.  
  
"If you don't go back and face what's wrong, it's never going to _stop_ being wrong. And the longer you run from it, the worse it gets. You can't get away that way."  
  
"So?" Siobhan raised an eyebrow. "What are you going to do?"  
  
"The last time he made a decision, it wiped half his memory," Tanker sneered. "He's a rookie. Think he knows what to do?"  
  
Zell glowered. "At least I'm not a" _(murderer asshole mad dog rabid mutt)_ "_killer_ like you."  
  
_(I think.)_  
  
"You don't know anything, memory boy."  
  
_(That was never the argument. I don't remember everything, but I remember... enough. I remembered enough to let me fight. I remembered enough to know what I was fighting for.)  
  
(Waitaminnit.)  
  
(But nothing I remembered was--)_  
  
"Real. Nothing is real." Drake brought a cigarette up to his lips, staring off at the night-black sea. "Nothing is _complete_. It's heads _or_ tails, and you can't see the full picture. The best gamblers make sure that the competition never notices when the deck is stacked."  
  
The smoke, thin and hazy against the gibbous moon, was fascinating. "You're not supposed to smoke, you know that?"  
  
Drake turned to him, blowing a long stream of smoke directly into his eyes. "Screw it. Do you always follow orders exactly as they're given?" _(Nothing more, nothing less?)_  
  
His fists were tightening. "...no."  
  
Drake smiled, falsely-white teeth glimmering in the starlight. "What are you going to do, Zell?"  
  
The moon silently waned away to almost nothing, a razor-thin sliver in the sky. _(Nothing is... complete. You really don't get to see anything if somebody else doesn't want you to.)_  
  
"What are you going to do?"  
  
He looked up. _(You can't run from nightmares. They just get worse if you do.)_  
  
"So?"  
  
_(So I'm not going to run.)_ "I think... I think I'm going...."  
  
_(What is it?)_  
  
"...home."


	8. Darkside

**_Layer 005:  
Darkside_**  
  
The late train pulled into Balamb at eleven forty seven exactly, a fact that was met with some disinterest by Zell. Six passengers, himself included, stepped off the train--five passengers, himself not included, headed for the Hotel.  
  
He wandered out onto the quiet streets, trying to reconcile what he saw with what he remembered. Everything seemed different, somehow. Nothing was the same--even the feel of the air, the scent of the sea breeze, the look of the stars; even the things that were supposed to be eternal, supposed to be the same now as they were ten years ago or fifty years hence--everything seemed different. It was as if something had been robbed from him--as if he had just lost his allotted share of youthful naïvety and this homecoming was his rude awakening.  
  
He started walking, without ever really deciding where he was going.  
  
From the Balamb entrance, Garden was visible. It seemed almost to glow in the distance, reflecting the light of a breathtaking night sky.  
  
_(Home,)_ he thought--but the word carried none of the connotations it should have. It was threatening--frightening. Between the time he had left and the time he had come back it had evolved into something completely different in his mind--an emblem of violence, of corruption, disguised in soft colors and soft lines. An illusion. A trap.  
  
Drake had promised him that he could have a new life. He could do anything he wanted to do. But standing there, feet firmly on the road that would lead him back to his dorm, his job, his life as a SeeD, he couldn't think about that. It would be running away--taking the gifts he had been given and giving nothing back.  
  
Drake was doing something good with what he had learned. He was helping people--taking the risks and doing all he could. Zell didn't understand how, exactly, but he understood _why_. It was one of the few things he _did_ understand, any more.  
  
He knew what he had to do. And the more he thought about it, the more right it seemed.  
  
He turned his steps toward Garden.  
  
-  
  
Garden was never totally asleep. No matter what time of night it was there would always be students sneaking off to the Training Center--for actual training or other, less legitimate business--and there would always be Faculty roaming the halls, and there would always be the Adjunct Medical Staff waiting in the Infirmary for the rare night injury.  
  
The AMS ran periodic trips to the Training Center, checking for those unconscious or too injured to make it to the Infirmary on their own. They were generally the only night traffic in the Entrance area.  
  
And it was Zell's luck--good or bad--that they found him there as he entered.  
  
Maybe it was only nerves, but the moment he saw someone coming around the main ring he had to fight the impulse to fide. A brief flash of _(He'll fight me; he **knows**--)_ was only countered by the fact that there was nowhere _to_ hide that wouldn't be terribly conspicuous from any given point in the hallway.  
  
That, and Nida had already noticed him--and seemed, if anything, even more startled than Zell himself was.  
  
They stared at each other for a moment, before Nida burst forward. "Dear _Hyne_, Zell!" he exclaimed, coming very close to grabbing his arm. "What _happened_ to you? You couldn't have contacted Garden? You should have _seen_ Xu and Cid--they were arguing survival possibilities, plotting retrieval missions--"  
  
Zell took a step back, more surprised than he should have been by Nida's vehemence. All of his nerves were still screaming at him, and he couldn't think of anything more to say than an incoherent "Uh--"  
  
Nida took the hint, and backed off. "...sorry. It's just after Siobhan came back--well, there's been a lot of talk going on." He glanced over him. "You all right?"  
  
Siobhan was back. Zell couldn't decide how he felt about that. "...yeah."  
  
Nida stepped past him, beckoning. "Come to the Infirmary. There's some standard tests we have to do--y'know, procedure. Then--" he stopped, and shook his head. "Well, if it wasn't _midnight_, I'd say you should go talk to Cid. He's been getting calls from your _mother_, you know...."  
  
Zell swallowed hard, and followed Nida to the Infirmary. There were a lot of things he didn't want to have to think about--Cid and his mother were two of them. _(They let me do all this....)_  
  
The Infirmary was designed to be things: functional, sterile, and comfortable--in that order. Needless to say, it wasn't at all unusual to see comfort sacrificed to one of the other concerns.  
  
The Infirmary had always, _always_ made Zell uncomfortable.  
  
Usually it was more mundane concerns--it was too _white_, too clean, and it always smelled kinda funny. Today, it something else--something about the matter-of-fact way Nida was attending to him, the darkness outside the window contrasted to the white Infirmary lighting, and the warm reception from the AMS that in no way matched the cold dread he felt inside.  
  
The physical given on return from a mission was routine--blood pressure, heart rate, the standard stuff. There was a special set of additional tests that had to be given when a SeeD returned from being captured or stranded--one that Zell had only had to go through once before in his life, and would prefer not to have had to go through again.  
  
"We'll start by de-junctioning you," Nida was explaining, as he had carefully explained every step before. It had to be something in the AMS manual--always let the patient know what was going on. _(Wish Fordham would have....)_ "I'm pretty sure you've seen these before," he said, holding up a small databank, packed with paramagical storage crystals. Several cords with electrode pads extended from it; Nida quickly swabbed Zell's temples with something and attacked them. "We'll just grab your stored magic and GFs and transfer another in. You'll be able to pick them back up tomorrow...."  
  
There was a moment of extreme disorientation, a _tugging_ feeling, and then the world righted itself. Having a machine Draw from you was utterly unlike having a person Draw from you.  
  
The new GF transferred into his brain with a mental _thunk_, taking hold immediately. "Meet Kirin," Nida said, reading from the junctioning device and making some notes on a form. "Regenerative-type GF. Now I have to grab a blood sample...."  
  
Siobhan had mentioned something about getting him back to Garden and de-junctioning him. She had said it would help him with his memories--but it wasn't. Thinking back, he couldn't remember anything more than he had at the Psychiatric Ward.  
  
_(Maybe she lied.)_  
  
He didn't register the pain as Nida drew his blood and applied the bandage. He was vaguely aware of Nida asking him questions--perfectly routine ones, utterly medical. It wasn't a debriefing--the Administration would take care of that--and so he answered with what he knew to be the right answers.  
  
Sooner or later, the tests were over. "Check in tomorrow for your GFs," Nida reminded him again. "We'll see if we have any follow-up tests we need to do then. For now, you should get some sleep."  
  
Zell nodded. There was a moment of silence.  
  
"Welcome back," Nida said, extending a hand.  
  
Nida stared for a moment before accepting the handshake. "...thanks," he said.  
  
Somehow, it felt like the most false thing he had ever done.  
  
-  
  
Garden wasn't dark at night--not the first floor, anyway. The dorm rooms themselves were held to an 11 o'clock lights-out curfew, but the main hall was always lit. Except for the darkness he could see beyond the entryway, except for the darkness of the second floor above him, it looked exactly as it would during the day--but empty.  
  
It was disturbingly quiet. The only noise was the hum of the air recirculation and the faint buzz of the lights--background noise, like the hum of blood past the ears. There was nothing to listen to beyond that and his own breathing.  
  
It was surreal--as if he had walked into a dream that he only barely recognized as such. He kept expecting the world to make sense, and it wasn't doing so--  
  
--in more ways than one.  
  
He found himself on one of the hallway benches, without anything to think other than _(Who is to blame?)_  
  
It had to be _someone's_ fault--things didn't just _happen_ as a result of dumb chance. People didn't learn to kill without being taught. But who was there to blame?  
  
It was hard to know. You could blame the Instructors, the textbook authors, the weapons manufacturers--you could blame the politicians who made the world a place for violence, or the clients who paid them for it.  
  
You could blame the SeeDs, who were _willing_ to learn and to fight and to kill. Willing to _murder_.  
  
He turned the ideas over and over in his mind, searching them for a first cause, for an original sin.  
  
He didn't find one.  
  
But he did find a thread running between them--the man who procured the weapons, who hired the instructors. The one who took the mission request, who assigned the SeeDs. Connecting it all was one man--sitting in his third-floor office like a spider, all the lines of the web leading directly to his door.  
  
He didn't know what he planned to do when he made his way to the elevator. The new Faculty didn't guard it, not even this late at night, and the locks had never been reengaged--there was nothing to stop him.  
  
As he ascended, his stomach began to settle--as if the elevator was leaving it behind.  
  
He had never minded the elevator before. Now, with every second that passed, he felt more and more _trapped_. He was more aware than ever of the walls of the elevator, caging him in, keeping him there--  
  
It seemed like far too long a time before the elevator arrived and the doors opened, letting him step out into the Headmaster's office.  
  
It was dark, lit only by the moon outside. It looked full--maybe a shade just under, but large and bright in the night sky. It cast a pale tint on the room, gilding the silence.  
  
He stood there for a moment, not knowing what he had come there for. The elevator doors closed behind him, loud in the absence of any other sound.  
  
A moment passed.  
  
The door to his right opened, and he spun around. Cid emerged, dressed for bed and looking quite tired. He smiled when he saw his visitor. Zell didn't smile back.  
  
"Zell," he exclaimed, relief evident in his smile and voice. "You're back at Garden! When did this happen? I wasn't notified--we were about to dispatch teams to find you--"  
  
"I just got here," Zell responded flatly, staring. Cid didn't _look_ evil--he looked like he always did, homely and friendly and human.  
  
"I see," Cid chuckled. "I wouldn't have expected to see you up here at this hour. ...I must admit, I was having some trouble sleeping, myself...."  
  
The hatred crept into him like a foreign agent--like poison, like disease. He felt unbalanced--as if, any moment, he was going to fall headfirst into something, and he didn't know what or how to avoid it. "That's good to hear," was all he could muster to say.  
  
Cid blinked owlishly, not understanding and probably guessing that he had misheard or Zell had misspoken. "Excuse me?"  
  
"You _shouldn't_ sleep well," Zell said, passing judgment without realizing it or consciously meaning to. "You don't know where you are."  
  
Cid seemed taken aback. "Well, I--I'm in Garden. Home. Are you quite--"  
  
"This place is full of _killers_," Zell snarled. Everything inside him wanted to advance--_everything_. He didn't know what prevented him. His fists clenched, his teeth clenched, his muscled tensed. "It's full of _killers_ and _you_ let them. --you _let_ them _kill_!"  
  
It was then that Cid began to realize something was wrong.  
  
"You're not feeling well," he hazarded. "Perhaps you should go to the Infirm--"  
  
"_I'm fine!"_  
  
The third floor was abandoned. The only rooms up here were the bridge, Cid's office, and Cid's bedroom--no one could hear his outburst.  
  
Cid was beginning to realize that, too.  
  
He shook his head, moving for his desk and the phone that sat upon it. "Obviously _something_ is wrong," he said, gravely.  
  
Zell beat him there. With one move he swept the phone from the desk, ripping the cord out and flinging it against the wall. It shattered, and the sound stopped Cid in his tracks.  
  
"Of course something is _wrong_," Zell snapped, slamming one fist down on the desk. "_You're_ wrong! _This _is wrong!" _(You use these people to **kill**--you used **me**!)_ "_Killing_ is _wrong_, and _you're_ the only one who doesn't _get_ it!"  
  
Cid was edging away, trying to put distance and obstacles between them. Zell stood between him and the elevator door, and no one would bet on his chances. "You're talking about SeeD," he said. "SeeD survives the only way it can. It was formed to fight the Sorceress, and if it hadn't there's not telling what--"  
  
"Yeah, well, we've _done _that already," Zell shot back. "And it looks like they're _still_ killing...."  
  
"What else would you have us do?" Cid shook his head. "The life of a mercenary is all these people know."  
  
"It's all you _taught_ them!" _(Kill for money--because sometime or other **you** decided that **money** was more important that peoples' **lives**--)_  
  
"It was the only way--"  
  
"_No!_" _(Don't defend yourself, you **bastard**, you know what you've **done**--!)_ "It was the only way _you_ wanted, the only way--" he couldn't take it. The anger was flooding his senses, creeping in his ears with every word _(Lie!)_ the Headmaster told him, with every thought he raised, every counter-argument that came to mind. "You're getting _rich_ from _killing_ people, and it's _not_ the _only way_ for **_anything_**!"  
  
All he felt was heat and hate. He didn't feel the air as the ceiling fan moved it. He didn't feel the pain as he fists tried to clench tighter than human hands could. He didn't feel any respect for the man in front of him, or any affinity, or any understanding. Only hate--a palpable force, a cacophony of blood rushing past his ears and his thoughts screaming at him, a fire that crept over and through him so that all he wanted to do was run or flail or scream, _anything _to be free of this terrible _rage--  
  
_"_You_," he spat, words more a vehicle for hate than a vehicle for meaning, "shouldn't be allowed to _live_ for what you've done."  
  
Cid panicked. Anticipating what was to come, he made a break back for his room. It was the wrong move.  
  
Speed translated to instinct--and instinct, to action.  
  
For the first time ever the fighting came as naturally as breathing, and easy as walking--tuck and _punch_ and the impact was a beat like a heartbeat, central and quintessential and _pure_ unblemished by any slight shadow of doubt or indecision or regret. It didn't _matter_ that sliding into the rhythm was as easy and unstoppable as falling or that the cracking of bones and the wet sound of muscle ripping were nothing more than visceral stimuli tightening up the stomach and making every breath sharper, it didn't _matter_ that the pathetic figure on the ground had been a living breathing person--one who had stood in front of Zell and given him advice _(Lies!)_ and who had been respected and even admired in this institution of violence and murder--it didn't matter because he bled and screamed like anyone else, like a hundred soldiers might, like any monster, like a _human_.  
  
It would have been easier to crush the windpipe or even snap the neck with a solid kick, but that seemed insufficient--it seemed like a weak response to everything that man had done or propagated upon the world. Maybe he couldn't take on all of SeeD, but he could strike a blow all the same--and he could make that one blow count for something, even if only in his own mind.  
  
_That man_ was lucky--luckier than he should have been--to be half senseless. Even so, there was terror in his eyes.  
  
He knelt down and took _that man_'s head in his hands.  
  
And with one terribly _wonderfully_ horrifyingly violent _twist_, it was over.  
  
And for the first time ever, _killing_ felt good.  
  
-  
  
No one noticed or stopped him on the way out of Garden. In fact, no one noticed or stopped him all the way back to Balamb. He slunk in the front gates, still shaking slightly with the aftershocks of murder. He didn't look up or down the streets as he crossed them. There was no need. Crime was a virtual unknown in Balamb--here, he was the only thing to fear.  
  
The city was completely, utterly still.  
  
He made it past his house without hesitating, and took a few steps down the slanting road toward the docks. Not even a quarter of the way there he staggered, collapsing against a light pole and sinking to the ground. He felt hot all over--feverish and dizzy. And he found himself staring at his hands as if trying to remember what they had done.  
  
Fordham's image was the only thing that stood out in his mind, and it was crystal-clear. Looking at him, smiling that enigmatic half-smile. _"You don't like killing, do you?"_  
  
He wanted to vomit. He would have, except there was nothing in his stomach--it was a gnawing, empty pit, turning over on itself and tying itself in knots. He wanted to collapse on the ground and close his eyes and let the world turn to black. He wanted to be back at Jennings, with the restraints in place. He wanted to be anywhere but there.  
  
_(I want to go home.)_  
  
For a brief moment, he turned the idea over in his mind. Just head home--sneak in the front door, up the stairs, fall asleep in his own bed--  
  
--slink past his mother _(**adopted** mother)_ and dodge her ever-so-well-meaning queries _(how **could** she let me go to **SeeD**)_ and lie down in the warmth and comfort of everything _good_ and _right_ as if nothing had happened, as if he was the same Zell Dincht now as he had been when he left Garden for Esthar--kind and happy and innocent and a _killer_.  
  
Shaking all the while, he stood up.  
  
Memories--some regained at Jennings, some more recent--jarred him, goaded him to push himself away from the post which had so far been his greatest form of support. He swayed, looking around for some means of escape.  
  
An alley caught his eye--something he had probably passed every day he had lived in Balamb and never given a moment's thought. It was dark--no lamps stood by to light it. It would have been the perfect path of retreat--except for one thing.  
  
In the center of the path stood _someone_--someone he was sure he would recognize if his head was clearer.  
  
There was silence for several long beats.  
  
"It's not past your bedtime, Chicken-wuss?" asked an infinitely calm, measured voice.  
  
He put a hand out to the lamppost, thoughts of violence and murder going through his mind--memories of violence playing over and over again. He felt as if he was at the very edge of action--teetering one way and another, with so very little to prevent him from simply lunging to kill. He had no immediate response.  
  
"You look drunk," Seifer noted, with a certain edge of amusement to his voice.  
  
"Siobhan told me about you," Zell responded--it being the first thing to come to mind. _(Always bullying the younger kids--)_ "I'm a SeeD, now."  
  
"Really." Seifer looked him over, somehow managing to miss every salient change he had undergone. "Hard to tell."  
  
"You know what Siobhan told me?" Zell wiped his gloves carefully off on his pants, doing effectively nothing to get rid of the slick, sweaty feeling on his hands.  
  
"No, but _please_, enlighten me," Seifer said, leaning forward slightly. Zell didn't notice the sarcastic smile playing across his face. He did notice that he was missing his gunblade--and, for about thirty seconds, that didn't make sense. _(...of course. Balamb. People don't **need** to carry weapons... because there's no danger here. Except--)_  
  
"She said you're a puppy." Zell shook his head. "A little, whining puppy," he continued, adding a bit of his own improvisation. "You picked on me 'cause you thought it was _easy_--you didn't have the _guts_ to pick on anyone else. Not the SeeDs." _(Not the killers.)_ He jabbed a finger at him, sharply. "You--" _(Damn you, I bet you **knew**--)_ "--_you _weren't the worst thing at Garden." _(You didn't join SeeD so you could kill for **fun**.)_  
  
Seifer was silent for a moment. Then he gave the barest hint of a smirk. "You know," he said, "tomorrow you're gong to wake up with a hangover, and you're going to regret that you said all that."  
  
Zell blinked at him, scowling. "Is that a threat?" _(I don't take threats. You **can't** threaten me....)_  
  
"Not at all." The infuriating slant to his lips was--quite infuriating.  
  
"I killed him," Zell rasped.  
  
A few moments passed before Seifer knew how to respond to that. "Talkin' about somethin', Dincht?"  
  
Zell staggered backward and sideways, crashing against the lamppost. _(You should know. You've killed SeeDs before. Plenty of them. Tell me I did something right--)_ "I killed him. It was his fault, and I killed him. ...the... the _headmaster_."  
  
The smirk disappeared from Seifer's face. This time, it didn't look as if Seifer would think up a response at all.  
  
"'cause... it was really all his _fault,_ you know. SeeD. And all that. None of it would have happened if it wasn't for him--" _(And so it was really his fault I killed him. Kinda. ...really.)_ "He just... shouldn't have done all that." _(Shouldn't have taught me how to kill.)  
_  
Seifer paused for the longest time Zell had ever seen him do so. At length, he shook his head. "You're going crazy, Dincht."  
  
_(I-- ...don't think so.)_ "I'm better now," he remarked. _(Except that I'm not. Except that I feel worse than I ever have....)_ "They cured me."  
  
There was another unusual pause as Seifer digested that. "...I think you should ask for a refund," he said, with all pretense of seriousness.  
  
A sick feeling went through Zell, and he stormed forward a couple of steps before he had to stop to steady himself. "You don't understand anything," he snarled. "You're just as bad as _Tanker_, stupid mad d--"  
  
Seifer punched him in the face.  
  
It took him a moment to realize that. By the time he reacted, flailing out with his own fists, he was already on the ground.  
  
Seifer approached, glancing down at him. Zell didn't try to read the expression in his eyes--he didn't want to know what it was.  
  
"Go home, Dincht," Seifer said, ever-so-calmly. Zell blinked.  
  
_(Ow--my head.)_ "...no."  
  
"I need to call a taxi for you?"  
  
Zell shook his head, trying to remember where exactly he was and _why_ it all felt so familiar.  
  
"There's something _wrong _with you," Seifer noted.  
  
Zell almost laughed. _(Yeah--probably.)_ "I suppose _you_ would know?"  
  
Seifer leaned forward, and he might have sneered--Zell was having a hard time seeing it, in any case. "Trying to pick a fight?"  
  
_(No!)_ "...yeah, maybe."  
  
"Get up, Dincht."  
  
After a moment of experimentation, Zell discovered that he in fact _could_ push himself up from the street. He stood up shakily, not entirely certain that the next second wouldn't find him on the ground again. Seifer looked him over, and seemed to come to the same conclusion.  
  
"You don't look like you could kill _ants_, Dincht."  
  
Zell's hands fisted. "What would _you_ know?" he hissed. "You don't think I--I _killed_--"  
  
Hitting the ground again, flustered and irate, Zell discovered that he had the ability to trip over his own feet without moving. He looked up, only to see Seifer shaking his head.  
  
"You're pathetic, Dincht," he pronounced--but it wasn't at all condescending. Rather, he sounded almost... worried.  
  
He turned and left just as Zell was figuring out how to work his legs again.  
  
He disappeared down the alley, and Zell recoiled. He braced himself against the lamp post, breathing heavily. There didn't seem to be enough oxygen in the air.  
  
Seifer would contact SeeD, and they would come hounding him down here. _SeeD_ would come. With familiar faces and familiar weapons and he could either run now or wait to make a stand--  
  
He shifted his weight onto his feet, swaying unsteadily. The road to the docks was clear, the docks themselves were empty. He didn't quite know where he was going or why, but downhill was easier to walk than uphill, so he let his own weight carry him down step by step until he could collapse against one of the dock trucks and close his eyes.  
  
He didn't like killing. He couldn't--he _wouldn't_ allow himself to believe that he did. It was wrong. _Wrong_.  
  
SeeD would come and they would find him here. And he would fight them because SeeD was evil, because somewhere along the line someone had decided that money was more important than human lives, that it was all right to kill--all right to _teach_ people from the earliest ages that it was all right to kill. He would fight them because he was a good kid, because Fordham had said so--he would fight them because Drake had cared enough to open his eyes and make him _hate_ them for who they were--and he would kill them if he could.  
  
The facts paraded in front of his eyes, like equations that wouldn't quite solve. He would kill because he hated killing. He would punish murder with murder. And it was the only thing that existed in his mind--the only answer. Impossible, detestable, absolute.  
  
_(Murderer.)_  
  
For the first time, he checked to see if there was blood on his hands. What would Fordham say?  
  
_(Murderer asshole mad dog rabid mutt **killer**--)_  
  
What would Cutwell say? He was a danger to society, he _knew_ that--but SeeD was different, wasn't it? Hardly part of society. _Hardly_.  
  
What would _Drake_ say?  
  
He closed his eyes. _(I don't like killing I don't like killing don't like killing like killing I **killed**--)_  
  
He couldn't remember. He couldn't remember what Drake had said--all those things Drake had said that _seemed_ like they should be easy to remember but for some reason they _weren't_--all he could remember was that _smile_, and the scent of tobacco smoke on an Esthar breeze.  
  
_(Drake would tell me to kill them.)_  
  
His insides queazed at the thought.  
  
_(...because it's the right thing to do.)_  
  
He opened his eyes, resolute. He wouldn't allow himself to falter. He wouldn't allow himself to wonder why it was that _nothing_ seemed right any more.


	9. Siobhan

**_Layer 006:  
Siobhan_**  
  
Balamb was one of those places where you could sit and watch the moon for hours.  
  
When he was much younger, sometimes his father _(**Adoptive** father)_ would take him out to the countryside with a tent, and they would camp under the stars. There was a song he used to sing--something about the sea, he thought, something innocent and soft and as far removed from him then as the moon from the ocean.  
  
_Come to the shoreline,  
My child, with me...._  
  
He didn't know how he had come from that to what he was now--from innocent to killer.  
  
His father had always seemed annoyed at how dirty his hands got when he went camping. Zell wanted to go back and tell him what he now knew--that dirt washed from the hands far more easily than blood.  
  
_Come to the shoreline,  
My child, with me,  
And look at the stars  
That shine on the sea...._  
  
It was something he wasn't--it was _everything_ he wasn't, everything he lost and couldn't have again.  
  
_Two little stars  
Are playing go-seek  
With two little fish  
In the sea, in the deep,  
And the frogs see the moon  
And cry out "ku-reep,"  
To tell my dear child  
That he should be asleep._  
  
It was dark, and he was tired and afraid. But there were no monsters here, and no tent to keep them at bay--there was a line of trucks, a few docked boats, a few stacked crates, and a fishing lean-to. This was reality--stark, bare and uneven--not the easy rhythm of a nursery rhyme.  
  
_Come to the shoreline,  
My child, with me.  
Come to the shoreline...._  
  
The ditty ran around and around in his head, and he felt quite certain that it would have driven him to madness if he didn't have a footing in that ground already. The minutes, the long hours, seemed interminable. And Zell would have preferred they had been, rather than face what was to come.  
  
-  
  
"Zell?"  
  
The summons came from the other side of the dock, and he flinched away from them. He knew that voice--he would have preferred it to be someone else, somehow. _Anyone_ else.  
  
He didn't know Siobhan that well, but somehow he didn't have to look over to see her--somehow he knew how she'd be standing one hand on her hip, poised and ready without _seeming_ poised and ready. Ready to fight. Ready to kill, _alert_--  
  
"I don't suppose we could talk this out?" she asked, and his fists clenched. "...I can see you, you know."  
  
He didn't move. Maybe she was bluffing--he didn't want to stand up, to face her. She was too far away, maybe, or the truck was in the right position--even with Fenrir _(Mad GF SeeD dog)_ whispering things into her brain, maybe there was a _chance_ that he was still safe.  
  
But it didn't feel like it.  
  
He felt hunted, cornered--like the fox in the underbrush, trying to escape the hound when the hound already had the scent.  
  
Siobhan approached, moving in a wide arc so as to avoid a direct preemption. "Let's not do it this way, Zell," she said softly.  
  
"Stop doing that," he shot back, backing up as far as he could.  
  
"What's bothering you?"  
  
_(What's--?!)_ "Stop saying my name like we're _friends_."  
  
Siobhan shrugged. "You don't need an enemy right now," she said, with perfect reasoned coolness. "Let's just talk, okay?"  
  
She was coming into his line of sight, now. His eyes skipped over her, registering every detail. There was a bulge in her right pocket--something that registered in his SeeD-trained mind as _weapon_. "Stay there."  
  
Siobhan stopped, making a wide, open-handed gesture. "You can still talk, right? Let's talk."  
  
"I don't have anything to say to you," Zell shot back.  
  
"Well, from where I'm standing, there are two ways to do this," Siobhan said. "We can try to talk things out, or we can have a good old knock-down, drag-out brawl. Now, I'll take whatever comes--so, really, it's up to you."  
  
_(Dammit dammit dammit dammit **dammit**!)_ "How do I know I can trust you?"  
  
Siobhan shrugged. "Because I have no reason to lie," she said.  
  
Zell remained unconvinced.  
  
"Here," Siobhan offered, backing up. "I won't come any nearer you than you want. Just come out of there." A ghost of a wry smile appeared on her face. "I really don't mean to back you into corners. I don't want to frighten you."  
  
_(I'm not **scared** of **SeeD**!)_ Standing stiffly, he inched his way out from between the trucks and into the open.  
  
He was almost surprised when no one jumped him--when he took a look around and could only see Siobhan. The Docks were empty, except for them--hunter and hunted.  
  
Siobhan backed up a few more steps, luring him further out of his hiding place. There was a gentle breeze he hadn't noticed--soft, too soft for the moment, the world, and all his newfound truth.  
  
Siobhan turned to the ocean, looking out across the waves. "Water sure is beautiful at night," she said. "Don't you think so? The way the moon reflects off the waves?"  
  
Zell turned too, looking at the inky expanse. He had never heard Siobhan talk like this--never expected her to. "...you want me to go back to Garden," he said flatly.  
  
"Of course I do. It's your home, Zell. It's where you belong."  
  
_(Because I killed Cid? Because I'm a killer?)_ "No. It's not."  
  
"Of course it is."  
  
Zell took a step back. "Maybe I thought it was once," he protested, "but it isn't any more. I can't go back there."  
  
"Why not?"  
  
He shook his head. "You wouldn't understand." _(You're a SeeD, and you don't know what I know. You wouldn't **understand**....)_ "Wh--why did you have to come after me?"  
  
Siobhan sighed. "It's a pretty strange story, to tell truth. We got a call from Seifer--_Seifer_, of all people. When they woke me up, I thought it was a prank--on _someone's_ part. But he told us what you had said. ...about Cid. And I was dispatched, immediately. Zell--"  
  
Zell shook his head. "It wasn't like that," he said.  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"I didn't want to hurt him," he confessed. He looked down, and was surprised to see his hands shaking. "..I didn't want to fight him."  
  
"What did--"  
  
"I wanted to _save_ him." He clenched his fists, and it didn't steady them. He let go. "I wanted to do something _right_, but I can't, because--" _(--because SeeD Hyne damn it makes you kill and kill so that killing is easy and it's all you know--)_ "--because I never learned how to. Because all I learned how to do was kill, and--" _(--and that's all anyone I know knows how to do and--)_ "--that's all _you_ know how to do, too." _(And the only person I knew who could do something different was Drake and now he's not here to help me and why is it that Drake and Fordham can change and be good people and I'm nothing but a--)_ "Killer. ...that's all we are."  
  
Siobhan was looking out to sea, ever so silently. "Sounds like you have a lot on your chest," she said, voice carefully neutral. _(She isn't listening to me,) _ Zell realized. _(Not really. It's just an act, let the crazy man talk so that they'll **trust** you....)_  
  
"I wanted to help _you,_" he snapped, rounding on her but not approaching. "But I can't! You don't understand it--all you understand is _SeeD_. You--you're not a _rookie_ like me."  
  
Siobhan turned around to face him, expression--as ever--unreadable. "I never thought I hear that," she said.  
  
"What?"  
  
"You. Calling yourself a rookie." Siobhan gestured vaguely. "You weren't exactly proud of the fact."  
  
"It means that they could save me," Zell contended. "Not you. You've been so brainwashed by SeeD that--"  
  
"Brainwashed?" Siobhan seemed genuinely surprised. "...there's an interesting word for it."  
  
_(What?)_  
  
Siobhan tucked both hand behind her back, tilting her head slightly to one side. "You're just as brainwashed as I am, Zell," she said. "Except that you're playing for the opposite team."  
  
_(I'm not--)_ "I'm different."  
  
"No, you're not." Siobhan made a wide gesture, as if seeking to indicate the entire world. "_Life_ brainwashes you, Zell. No matter who you are or where you live or what you do, you learn something and won't let it go. Maybe you will change your mind, later on. Maybe you'll change your mind on everything, buy into something else. It's still brainwashing. That's all there is."  
  
_(What--?)_ Zell shook his head. This wasn't making any sense, and yet--  
  
"Come back to Garden with me," Siobhan said. "Just come back. We can figure everything out there, okay?"  
  
_(No!)_ He shook his head, more violently than he should have. He stumbled, raising both hands and unsure whether he should be attacking or fending off blows. "Why? So you can brainwash me back?" _(Make me sit there and listen to **lies** while you tell me that SeeD is good, that **killing** is all right, that--)_  
  
"And you can try to brainwash me. Maybe we'll get something figured out."  
  
"No," he said, fear of something unknown creeping into his voice. _(She's in SeeD and SeeD is killers and liars so I can't believe her, I **can't**--)_  
  
"You're in some bad trouble, Zell," Siobhan said, softly and far too earnestly. "I want to help you."  
  
_(Help!)_ "Fordham wanted to _help_ me, Drake wanted to _help_ me, I don't know _what_ you want but you don't--" He was backing up now, hands out in front of him to fend off an assault he didn't even understand. "You're _SeeD_, and _SeeD_ doesn't _help_ people, it _kills_--"  
  
Siobhan wasn't advancing on him, but it felt as if she was. "You're wrong," she said. "SeeDs are human, just like anyone. Just like you."  
  
_(**Not** just like me, I know the **difference** between right and wrong and this is **wrong**, I don't know how but it **is**!)_ "Leave me alone." He rammed into the truck behind him, lost his footing, and fell to the ground. The irrational fear had grown into an irrational terror, and it felt as if someone was tightening a noose around his neck when Siobhan's right hand made the slightest move toward the bulge in her pocket. _(It's a gun,)_ he realized.  
  
"I can't, Zell," she said, voice still that _damnably_ cool calm. "I have to bring you back."  
  
_(She's going to kill me,)_ some hind part of his brain screamed at him. _(SeeD's going to shoot me she'll kill me SeeD knows what I did and what I want to do and they're going to kill me and they can because it's SeeD--)_  
  
"...I never thought you'd use a gun," the part o his brain that was still in control noted.  
  
"Are you going to fight me? I don't want to fight you."  
  
"You're going to kill me--"  
  
"No." _(Liar!)_  
  
"--because that's what--that's what--" _(Damn it all, that's what you **do**!)_  
  
"Don't make me fight you." It was a warning. It should have been a plea.  
  
_(I'm not the one making you fight anything. It's SeeD. It's all SeeD, and I wish I **could** save you--  
--but you're too far gone for anything. It's all you are. SeeD.)_  
  
He swallowed.  
  
_(Killer.)_  
  
He felt sick--sick and dizzy and angry and afraid. Hate crept into him from every direction, from inside and out, flooding his senses without his volition, accelerating his heart so that every nerve screamed out at him, _fight or flee_!  
  
Siobhan stood to one side of him, the ocean to the other. Flight was no option--there was really only one. _(And this is what SeeD makes me do--makes me kill, makes me a **killer** and I **hate** it I hate it **so much**--)_  
  
"Zell?"  
  
_(I'll start it,)_ he decided. _(I'll finish it, because it's the only way--the only right thing to do. I'll kill you so you don't have to kill. Death for death. That's fair... isn't it?)_  
  
He stood up. Siobhan was waiting expectantly for an answer.  
  
"...I'm sorry," was all he could come up with. "...sorry, Siob. I want you to know I'm sorry."  
  
It was all the warning he gave her before he charged.  
  
-  
  
There was a kind of serenity in it all. In force, momentum, instinct--in the pure balance of _action... reaction_ and the precise movements made easy by practice and habit. There was a kind of serenity in the fact that what he was doing was wrong, and he knew it and there was nothing he could do--a kind of serenity in the despair of it all.  
  
There was no serenity in the rage as it consumed him, or the hate as it knotted his stomach, or the sound of blood in his ears. It was too physical, too visceral--too unreasoned, too set apart from the _rightness_ of the world.  
  
It was all he knew. All they had taught him, all he had learned.  
  
_(Want it,)_ some tiny, vicious portion of his brain hissed at him. _(Need it. Accept it. You have to fight fire with fire--the only one who can stop a SeeD is a SeeD. Be evil to stop evil. It's the only way.)_  
  
The only way--  
  
He had fought before--he had _enjoyed_ fighting before. _(More than I like running.)_   
  
Siobhan might have been in SeeD, and SeeD might have used GFs, but a magical battle would be bright and noisy and disruptive--SeeD was interested in keeping on Balamb's good side _(Pulling the wool over their eyes!)_, so Siobhan would avoid making a scene in the middle of the night if she could at all help it. She was a martial artist and so was he--except for the gun in her pocket, they were fighting on equal terms.  
  
Just like he had in a hundred battles, just like he had in a thousand training sessions, he engaged his enemy--faint, swing, duck and dodge. Siobhan was easily his equal, but she was still at the disadvantage.  
  
_(She doesn't want to kill me as much as I need to kill her.)_  
  
It was hard, fast, and physical. He got a fist up into her ribs, she caught him with a headbutt that burst stars in his vision. Again and again they connected, sometimes blocking, often not--glancing blows that still left bruises, solid hits that seemed almost to kill--  
  
Siobhan hooked her heel around Zell's ankle, landing both palms on his sternum with enough force to trip him over backward. He hit the ground hard, tucking into a roll as quickly as his muscles would respond--two seconds more and he was on his feet again, facing his opponent from a distance of some few metres.  
  
Siobhan's eyes unfocused, and her hand stretched out--and Zell faltered. That was a classical pose for drawing or sending GFs or magic--and it wasn't as if he could be expected to _have_ anything she would want so much as to make herself vulnerable for the few seconds it took. _(So... huh?)_  
  
There was the barest moment of disorientation, and Zell felt a new GF junctioning itself to him. He was taken aback for a second, confused--they were in the middle of a pitched battle, why would his enemy be _giving_ him more firepower? What in _hell_ was she trying to _do_?  
  
There had to be an explanation. An easy, simple explanation that he could analyze and understand _(just like Drake said I could)_.  
  
Maybe it was because the mental cues for sending and summoning GFs were--  
  
--so dissimilar that _no one_ would ever be able to confuse the two.  
  
Damn and hell.  
  
He cut the speculation short with an angry charge, aiming a blow at her neck that could easily snap her spine. She ducked and dodged--_damn_ Siobhan, she was as slippery as a greased Cactuar--and twisted away, hopping up onto a crate and extending her hand again. This time he felt the reverse disorientation as Kirin was pulled from his mind, leaving him with....  
  
_(Doomtrain.)_  
  
He didn't have time to summon a GF in a pitched battle like this one, but Doomtrain came with other added perks that didn't take so much time. Added perks that might be able to allow him to twist the battle into his favor, even if Siobhan was being skittish and avoiding a direct confrontation.  
  
...this was going to hurt, but one thing Drake had taught him well was that sometimes if you wanted something badly you had to pay in pain. And Zell wanted very, _very_ badly to kill this SeeD.  
  
Siobhan was reaching for the gun in her pocket, and that put her offguard for the few moments he needed. The mental cues for Doomtrain were fairly simple ones--this was going to be easier than one, two, three.  
  
_(**DARKSIDE**.)_  
  
He charged, swinging his fist in a roundhouse that could have smashed the exoskeleton of an X-ATM. Siobhan saw the attack coming and tried to dodge it--but one thing he had learned about the Darkside attack was that it rarely--if ever--missed.  
  
Siobhan twisted and Zell followed, swinging in with his other hand and catching her squarely just below the ribs, fueled by a dark surge of paramagic. There was an audible crack--Siobhan sucked in breath, tumbling to the ground and rolling. Zell felt the answering pain as the magic rebounded on him, causing him to stumble backward.  
  
Siobhan came up faster than he expected, backing quickly away to gain some space. Her hand darted into her pocket, and--  
  
...now that he noticed, there was something odd about the bulge in that pocket. It seemed to be a lot thicker at the bottom--which was absurd. That meant the butt of the gun had to be downward, and who in their right mind walked around with a gun in their pocket whose barrel pointed up?  
  
...which meant that that probably wasn't a gun.  
  
He was really, really confused.  
  
However, dead people were notoriously easy to understand--so he figured that pretty soon he could make everything all right and easily understandable.  
  
_(...**Darkside**.)_  
  
Siobhan withdrew the weapon--a synthetic rod with a mace end--and challenged him to come near her again. Zell took up the challenge immediately.  
  
She had seen the advantages Darkside gave him, now--she was ready to handle it. As soon as he came within striking distance she jumped away, twisting and scuttling behind him before he had a chance to turn. Bringing the weapon to bear, she swung it in a tight arc as he turned to deliver his blow--  
  
His foot smashed into her leg at about the same time the weapon slammed into the base of his skull. And suddenly--in the instant just before impact--he felt a glint of recognition as to what, precisely, the weapon was.  
  
It felt--  
  
_"Wake up!"_  
  
--as if someone had Pained him--  
  
_(Waitaminnit.)_  
  
--while he was asleep.  
  
Doomtrain flooded his unconscious mind with nightmare. His conscious mind quietly relinquished the controls, and plunged him into darkness.


	10. REM Dreams

**_Layer ???:  
REM Dreams_**_  
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...this isn't just some recurring nightmare, is it?  

    
      
    
      
    
      
    
      
    
      
    
      
    
      
    
      
    
      
     

"Every one of us has nightmares. Being mercenaries, you will of course have nightmares of a different  
  
_being **mercenaries**_**  
  
nightmares**_ of a different _sort_  
more potent  
_than the_ **average person  
  
**_****all of this is _inconsequential_--"  
  
_(Waitaminnit waitaminnit this is not)_  
  
"No nightmares at all?" _At all._  
  
_(I've been here before now haven't I--or I never left--but this isn't just the same nightmare one more time it's **more** than that I know it I can **feel** it)_  
  
**_Memory boy._**  
  
"I'm not--"  
  
**_NIGHTMARE._**_ "Rookie."  
  
(Can't be a recurring dream because I saw back then things I couldn't have seen things I shouldn't have known)  
  
_Mercenary. Mercenary_ mercenary_ blue dragon_ **SeeD** _scandals_ Tanker Drake_  
  
Siobhan.  
  
Siobhan twisted and Zell followed, swinging in with his other hand and catching her squarely just below the ribs, fueled by**_  
  
_**a heartbeat, central and quintessential and _pure_ unblemished by any slight shadow of doubt or indecision or regret  
  
a fact that was met with some disinterest by Zell  
  
not sure what he should expect  
  
_Please, direct your attention to the_  
  
Pain.  
  
  
  
Pain was the one recognizable thing in the universe about him. It racked him, a throbbing agony that flooded his brain and drove him to the brink of madness and back. It was implacable and omnipresent, and he writhed in a futile attempt to be rid of it. He was aware of a great darkness, as if he had gone suddenly blind--all he could see was black, all he could hear was silence, and all he could feel--  
  
He was nauseated. He didn't know where he was or how he had gotten there--he didn't know what was happening to him, or what had happened to make this happen. In short, he didn't know anything.  
  
He couldn't say why, but it felt as if that was becoming a familiar experience.  
  
Everything seemed jumbled--memories he couldn't place, voices he didn't recognize, words he didn't remember. He lashed out blindly, trying to find something--some solid purchase, inside his mind or outside it, a GF, a wall, _any_thing--but he came in contact with nothing. The universe had been cut down to himself and his confusion.  
  
And, of course, the pain.  
  
He _had_ no memory. All he was left with was speculations--each one more nightmarish, each one more incredible than the last. Maybe he was sick--could fevers inspire dreams like this? Or maybe he was going insane, and just now realizing it--maybe this was some new kind of torture, some GF too powerful for him to junction--  
  
Maybe it was Hell.  
  
Maybe it was Hell, and he was condemned to it. Maybe he was stuck here for eternity, waiting while some divine immortal extracted payment for whatever sins--  
  
_(Whatever sins.)_  
  
In the span of a second, it came back to him with the force of a Lunar Cry. And, in an instant, he found himself in the midst of a jumble of information--far too much, instead of far too little.  
  
And it only made him understand things less.  
  
  
  
He remembered _everything_.  
  
He remembered being assigned the mission, carrying it out, being captured. He remembered the Ward, and his return to Balamb. He remembered the murders, and the fight, and how he had come to _this_.  
  
He remembered, in fact, a bit more than everything--little impossibilities that he couldn't reconcile. He remembered Tanker saving him in the storage room, he remembered making it out on his own--he remembered Cid saying that three was one more than he would have preferred to send on this type of a mission, he remembered Cid introducing them to Drake--  
  
He remembered counting seven lights. He remembered _seeing_ eight.  
  
And, somewhere in the confused line between leaving for Esthar and coming back home, he remembered talking with Drake on the docks, looking out over the sea by moonlight. He remembered watching the smoke from Drake's cigarette float up against the moon. He _remembered _exactly why he had done what he had done, and why it had seemed so _right_. But he couldn't _understand_ it, any more.  
  
It was like some kind of a nightmare, looking back and finding himself unable to cope with what he had done--_anything_ that he had done. Nothing seemed natural any more--not taking orders from SeeD, not acting on his own will. It was like the past days and weeks had gone by in a dream, something no one could explain--as if he was on the verge of waking, and the world would make sense again.  
  
Then he came to the realization. He _was_ on the verge of waking--but entirely backwards from what he wanted. This, his moment of clearheadedness, of objective wonder, was the dream. The senseless thing was reality.  
  
He opened his eyes.


	11. Daylight

**_Layer 007:  
Daylight_**_  
**  
**_****He opened his eyes to artificial light, dimmed ever-so-slightly so as not to be painful. He opened his eyes to the hum of recirculating air, and the coolness of a sheet spread over him. He opened his eyes to the blinding ambient _white_ness that marked the Garden Infirmary.  
  
And to Siobhan, sitting at the end of the bed, one leg in a cast and torso heavily bandaged--the final proof that he hadn't been dreaming all this time.  
  
She was as cool and inscrutable as she had ever been, flipping through a magazine that rested on her lap, frowning ever-so-slightly in boredom. Behind her, armed and at alert, stood a SeeD he didn't recognize.  
  
_(...a guard.)_  
  
The guard cleared his throat, and Siobhan glanced up. "Hm," she acknowledged, nodding slightly. "Looks like you're awake."  
  
The statement was so simple, so obvious, that in the light of all that had occurred Zell found himself without any way to respond.  
  
Siobhan seemed to understand. "Hyne," she remarked, grimacing. "We have a lot to catch up on."  
  
Zell looked down at his hands. They had taken his gloves--but that was to be expected. He felt oddly powerless without them. "He's dead, isn't he?"  
  
Siobhan seemed to understand. "Yes."  
  
There was a long silence as he tried to come up with something to say, and came up empty. "......you must all hate me."  
  
"Some of us do." There was something oddly reassuring about her frankness--if not her words. "...not all of us."  
  
With some difficulty, he sat up. He was exhausted--that much, he could tell. Aside from that, he was unable to make sense of the jumble of sensations impinging upon his brain--physical, emotional, whatever; all were tied up into the same lost confusion.  
  
"...I really didn't want to hurt him," he said, hoping repetition would make it believable. _(Or, better yet--true.)_  
  
Siobhan exhaled sharply, turning to look at the guard. "You can leave now. I can take care of myself." She glanced back. "And Zell's not going to hurt me. Are you?"  
  
Zell looked down at his hands, feeling the blood run to his face. He shook his head.  
  
Siobhan nodded to the guard, who gave Zell a sideways glance and stepped out. Then she sat down on a stool across from him, watching him with the most peculiar expression he had ever seen. It was in the same class as pity, but somehow.... utterly her own.  
  
"You remember everything?"  
  
Wordlessly, he nodded.  
  
"Then I don't have to _tell_ you what you did."  
  
He shook his head.  
  
Siobhan sighed. "The Desperados took us to Juska. When we came to it was me and Tanker in a holding cell--you were nowhere to be seen. After a while someone came by and told us we were going to stand trial. They handcuffed us and marched us off. Tanker broke loose and attacked them--he took three bullets, and they dragged him off somewhere. We don't know what happened to him--if he's even alive."  
  
Zell didn't respond. After a moment, Siobhan took the cue to begin speaking again.  
  
"I guess I was just smarter. I took my time. They loaded me into some kind of transport with a guard to watch me--strapped me in, and everything. When they got me to the tribunal house they had to let me out, and that's when I made my move. I managed to... convince... my guard to unlock the cuffs, and I took out the guards when they tried to get me out. Then I broke and ran. Got myself lost in SubEsthar, and managed to contact Garden. They got me set up with someone who could extract me, and I made it back here."  
  
Zell blinked. "...'m glad you're safe," he murmured, almost to himself.  
  
"I was lucky." He could almost _feel_ her looking at him. "I don't know _what_ happened to you, but it's not like I can't guess. When we tested you, you were full of residual chemicals. We've... seen them before."  
  
_(Chemicals.)_ Zell was taken aback by the way she said that--matter-of-factly, as if it was no surprise whatsoever what had happened or why. Oddly enough--he felt like laughing. "Chemicals? It was all just _chemicals_?"  
  
"Don't joke about this, Zell." There was a note of warning in Siobhan's voice. "We don't know. We don't know if that's all it was. _You_ probably have the best idea of anyone. But at _least_ take it seriously."  
  
"You think I'm _not_." _(Dammit, I--I don't think I could take this any more seriously if I **tried** to--)_  
  
"I didn't say that." Siobhan looked at him, long and carefully. "If I were you, I would want to talk about this."  
  
"Was that advice?" Zell was uncovering a latent talent for cynicism, it seemed, that he hadn't previously been aware of.  
  
Siobhan glanced away. "An admission," she said. Then she cleared her throat, looking pointedly back into his eyes. "And an _offer_. Not too many people want to be your friend right now."  
  
_(**I** don't even want to be my friend right now.)_ "...oh."  
  
There was a moment of silence that grew more awkward by the millisecond.  
  
"Well?" Siobhan prodded.  
  
Zell glanced up. "Er--I'm just supposed to _start_?"  
  
"You think of a better way?"  
  
He shook his head. "...not really."  
  
"Then start."  
  
_(How can I just--_) "...I don't know what to say."  
  
"Try this," Siobhan said. "Start at the beginning. Start with the mission."  
  
_(O--okay.)_ He swallowed. "I guess it... I don't think I had this much trouble on the mission." _(Not with killing. I didn't mind it then--)_ "Nothing felt _wrong_, like it does now. I don't even remember what happened, really, but it didn't feel wrong."  
  
Siobhan was nodding, listening patiently. Just like she had on the docks. _(Let the crazy man talk....)_  
  
...it didn't matter. Even if she didn't care, even if she hated him, even if she thought he was out of his mind, it was good to have someone listen.  
  
"I never thought about it that way--I never knew I could do that. I mean, I--" _(--what am I saying? I knew I could do that. I knew I could kill. I didn't know killing was wrong. I didn't know I could do something wrong--**that** wrong--and never know about it.)_ "It's just that when I saw the video of what happened, when me and Drake--"  
  
A sudden realization hit him.  
  
"..._Drake_! Drake didn't come back! Siob, you--" he lunged forward, ignoring the way it made his head spin, and grabbed Siobhan's arm--on the verge of shaking her to get his point across. "You _can't let him back_ into Garden! He'll--I don't _know _what he'll do, but he _can't come back_!"  
  
Siobhan pulled, wrenching her arm from Zell's grip. "Okay, okay, calm down. You're not making any sense, you know that?"  
  
Zell shook his head. "Drake is the reason for all of it. We can't let him back here!"  
  
Siobhan was giving him the strangest look. At length, she shook her head. "Zell?"  
  
"Y-yeah?"  
  
There was a beat of silence as she scrutinized his face. "Who the _hell_ is Drake?"  
  
-  
  
Half an hour later, Xu entered the Infirmary with a stack of papers in hand. "I've checked every record we have," she said. "There's no mention of anyone named Jeshua Drake, or anyone named Drake at all. We can't find anyone who _knows_ a Jeshua Drake, or who knows _of_ him. For all we can tell, he doesn't exist."  
  
_(...I don't get it.)_ "But he was on the mission. Cid _assigned_ him to be on the mission! The contingency officer. He--he _told_ me that he worked for SeeD--"  
  
"_Zell_." Siobhan interrupted him with a force he didn't contest. "There were only three people on the mission. You, me, and Tanker."  
  
_(That can't be right.)_ "But I--I saw him. I talked to him."  
  
"When?"  
  
_(When?)_ He blinked, shuffling through a thick mental fog. _(Sometime at night. At night--by the ocean. He was smoking, and I told him he shouldn't be--)_ "I... don't know. But it was dark out."  
  
Siobhan glanced at Xu, who shook her head. "...we were only in South Side for one night," she said. "We got to Esthar in the morning and headed down. We met up with our contacts and you went to get the IDA. You got back to the warehouse, and we met up with you there. ...this was all before sundown, Zell. You were _unconscious_ for the entire night."  
  
"Someone helped me back," he said, voice made shaky from lack of certainty. "You weren't there, and Tanker wasn't there, but someone helped me back to the warehouse. I can remember it." _(I--I think--)_  
  
"Who? A phantom SeeD?" Siobhan shook her head emphatically. "This might not be the best time to trust your memory, Zell. You--"  
  
"I _remember **Drake**!_" It came out much more vehement than he had intended. "I _remember_ him! I _saw_ him and I _talked_ to him and he was _there_ when I stole the IDA and I--I--I'm not _making this up!_"  
  
_(...but Drake was never **in** any of the memories with Tanker and Siob....)_  
  
All at once, he collapsed. Every muscle seemed to switch off, to deactivate as cleanly as if a switch had been flipped. "...help me," he whispered.  
  
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Xu making a discreet exit. A moment later, Siobhan's hand was on his shoulder. "What do you need?"  
  
_(I need to know what's going on. I need my memories. I need to go home. I need to go back in time a week so that none of this would ever happen. I need--)_ "...I need to know I'm not going crazy."  
  
He could almost hear Cutwell's stiff retort. _You're a danger to yourself and others._  
  
"We'll get to the bottom of this," Siobhan promised. "Trust me, Zell. Do you trust me?"  
  
_(Yes! ...no! I--I don't **know**!)_ "Can I?"  
  
"Of course. Always."  
  
He wanted to believe her. In a lot of ways, he _needed_ to. But she was Siobhan, the eternally unreadable--and he was nothing more than a rookie, confused and oblivious. _The Blue Dragon scandals,_ Fordham's voice whispered to him. _The subordinate was never informed, never aware._  
  
"Then--tell me." He swallowed. _(I have to know. I need to understand it.)_ "Who was wrong?"  
  
The gentle pressure on his shoulder didn't release. "What?"  
  
"You and Fordham and everyone. ...Fordham said that all this was wrong, that it--it wasn't _right_, but I don't--I don't know. You can't _both_ be right. So--who was wrong?"  
  
Siobhan laughed--a low chuckle. _(What's funny?)_ "...wow," she said.  
  
_(...?)_ Zell glanced up, not sure what he would see--and not expecting what he saw. Siobhan was smiling thinly--the same way she had in Joe's in South Side. _You're cute when you're oblivious._  
  
"No one was _wrong_, Zell. Just... right, in different ways." Siobhan let go of his shoulder, leaning back.  
  
_(But that--!)_ "That's impossible!"  
  
"I don't see why," Siobhan countered smoothly.  
  
"But--Fordham said--"  
  
"He's right. Killing people _is_ wrong--killing for the sake of killing, killing for no purpose whatsoever."  
  
"But SeeD--"  
  
"_We_ don't decide to kill these people," Siobhan said, gesturing offhandedly. "_We_ don't choose who lives and dies, and if _we_ didn't do it, someone else would. SeeD isn't a... a hive of murderers. _You're_ not a murderer, Zell. ...you're a gun."  
  
Zell shook his head. "Is _that_ right?"  
  
Siobhan shrugged. "Maybe not. Different, anyway."  
  
"How?"  
  
Siobhan glanced out the window, frowning in an attempt to phrase thoughts into speech. "Look. A gun isn't a bad thing, in and of itself. Guns have a useful purpose. They can be _used_ _for_ a lot of bad things, though, which is why so many people hate them." She sighed. "As mercenary groups go, we don't have so bad a track record. Most of the people we're hired against are the Galbadians, anyway, and they're pretty much the supreme asshats of all creation. For Hyne's sake, we saved the _universe_. If you want moral failings, there are worse institutions than SeeD out there."  
  
Zell shook his head. "That doesn't make it _right_."  
  
"Hm." Siobhan shrugged. "I never bothered to think about it. Most people don't."  
  
_(Well-- ...they should.)_ "I can't _stop_ thinking about it."  
  
"I don't blame you."  
  
"But--"  
  
"Zell." Siobhan's voice brooked no room for argument. "Find me one completely moral person, and I'll show you a clever facade. We all choose our sins, and you're no different. At the end of the day, what difference does it make? One more dead guy who would be dead anyway in a few years? You could spend centuries wondering if it's right or wrong. What it all comes down to, though--it's just what we _do_."  
  
Zell couldn't do anything but stare. "You're--" he spluttered, shaking his head. "You mean _nothin's_ wrong? You _think_ that way?"  
  
Siobhan shrugged. "I'm a SeeD," she said. "I cope with that. Can you?"  
  
Zell looked down. His hands were clenched so tightly that they hurt. "I don't know," he said.  
  
"You _are_ a SeeD, Zell."  
  
"I don't know."  
  
There was a long moment, and Siobhan sighed. "Maybe--"  
  
"No--you don't _get_ it!" Zell's head jerked up, and he faced her. "There are things I just _know_ now, and I _know _that something is wrong. I can't just _ignore_ it--" _(It **means** something.)_ "...it'll only get worse. But I can't do anything about it, because if I try--"  
  
Siobhan was listening, waiting for him to finish the sentence. And, just when he needed it the most, all eloquence abandoned him.  
  
_(If I try, then I turn into a killer--just as bad as who I want to change. No better than Tanker, no better than Cid, no better than **damn** Fordham and Cutwell they used **chemicals** to make me feel this way but if they didn't I would never have **known**.... And I don't know **anything** any more, except that **something** isn't right.)_  
  
"...if I try, nothing gets better. Different, maybe. But nothing gets better."  
  
Siobhan nodded. "I know how it feels," she said.  
  
_(No, you don't.)_  
  
"...maybe you should try something else."  
  
He stared at her, not understanding what she was asking him to do. "What else is there?"  
  
"A universe of possibilities," Siobhan responded. "Ones that no one can show you, but you."  
  
Zell blinked slowly. "...did you mean what you said?" he asked. "About brainwashing?"  
  
"That the world brainwashes you? Yeah." Siobhan leaned back, looking past Zell and out the window. "No matter what you learn, no matter where you learn it, if you'll hold onto it without thinking, that's brainwashing. I don't care if it's with the best intentions or the worst--it's the same thing."  
  
The guard reappeared, jerking a thumb back behind him. "SeeD Sierra?" he asked. "Xu wants to see you in her office."  
  
"I'll be right up," she replied, effectively dismissing the man. Bending down, she retrieved a crutch from the ground just out of Zell's sight. Glancing back at him, she stood and turned to leave. "See you."  
  
"Wait--!" The word was out of Zell's mouth before he realized he had nothing else to say.  
  
Siobhan paused in the doorway, looking back at him. There was a moment of silence that seemed to last longer than it must have.  
  
"You _are_ a SeeD," she said, softly. "But that doesn't mean you can't be human."  
  
And with that, she was gone.  
  
-  
  
He closed his eyes.  
  
_(Every one of us has nightmares. Being SeeDs, we will of course have nightmares of a different and more potent sort.)_  
  
SeeD wasn't right. The Ward wasn't right. It seemed like nothing was right or wrong, but that didn't seem right either.  
  
But Drake--  
  
Jeshua Drake, whom he had _seen_ and _spoken _to, and who for all reasonable intents and purposes _didn't exist_.  
  
He kept lining everything up in his mind. (_Fordham. Tanker. Siobhan. Drake. Cid--)_  
  
There were seven lights. Seven in a ring and one in the middle. Seven altogether, and neither answer was _right_.  
  
He breathed deeply and closed his eyes again, not remembering when he had opened them. He didn't understand it and no one could explain it. Fordham would tell him that there were eight lights. Siobhan would tell him that Drake didn't exist. Drake would tell him that killing was right. He didn't--he _couldn't_ trust anyone.  
  
Not even himself.  
  
_(Nightmares of a different and more potent sort. A nightmare is waking up one day and finding out that you can't live with anything you were, any way you've acted, anything you've done. And I can't. I **can't**.)_  
  
He was beginning to think he should have paid more attention to that lecture.  
  
He tried to think back to it. He really did. But all he could remember were those same, useless words. _Nightmares of a different and more potent sort_._ A different and more potent sort. Different and more potent._  
  
It seemed as if he should be able to remember it. He grasped at it--little wisps of memories, of nightmares, of anything that seemed related.  
  
Suddenly he remembered something--something about the night sky and the dark sea. _(Nothing is real. Nothing is... complete. It's heads or tails, and you can't see the full picture. ...the best gamblers make sure the competition never notices when the deck is stacked.)_  
  
It was the only answer he had.  
  
And it was Drake's voice and Drake's smile that came back to him then, sounding through the confusion just as they had sounded through the roar and swell of Estharan waves.  
  
_(We can **deal** with our big, bad dreams.)_  
  
  
  
~_finis_~


End file.
